


Bring Out The Lady

by kbbrianne



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band), Best Song Ever - One Direction (Music Video), One Direction (Band)
Genre: 1d, BUT I CAN FEEEaahhh yeah okay..., Completed, DIIAAAAANA, Deep Meaningful Conversations, Depression, Diana (1D Song), Diana - Freeform, Eleanor and Louis being entirely too under-developed as characters but lovely nonetheless, F/M, Friendship, Gen, General Teenage Angst, Harry being and absolute loveable darling, High School AU, I'll ahah I'll stop singing now, LEMME BE THE ONE TO, LIGHT A FIRE INSIIIDE THOSE EYES, Liam being a full-on misunderstood dude, Love, M/M, Marcel being an adorable dork, Me taking the characters from Best Song Ever and turning them into actual humans, Much creycrey, Niall being a happy little ray of sunshine, One Direction High School AU, One Direction Song Diana, One direction AU, Pain, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Survival, Trigger Warnings, YOU'VE BEEN LONELY YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW ME, Zayn being the gosh-darned kindest son of a guy that ever lived, ayye, kinda therapy in story form, mm I hope you like it (◡‿◡✿), one direction - Freeform, relationships, with a nerdy little brother called Marcel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 06:47:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 79,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kbbrianne/pseuds/kbbrianne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Diana has struggled with existence for 17 years now. Her best and only friend is her therapist, and living with a mum who works until late into the evening has hardly prepared Diana for her move to a brand new school. Suddenly she finds herself making friends - particularly with Marcel, the kid in the library who plays a lot of chess, and his extraordinary older brother Harry, with whom Diana finds herself more than slightly besotted... </p><p>She is taken away on a whirlwind of friendship, caught between an ongoing feud between the two most popular guys in school: Liam and Harry. All once firm friends, Harry and Louis and Niall have not spoken a word to Zayn or Liam for nearly two years. Or haven't they? All is not as it seems, and it seems none of Diana's business - until the issues that Diana keeps to herself may get the better of the people she's come to love.</p><p>All it takes is one girl, no matter how scared or scarred, to knit back together the tangled lives of these five teenage guys... but does she have the courage?</p><p>*duuun du dun dun dUUUUUUUUUn* yea. enjoy. (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ**  Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Queen's Gambit

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y’all!! Just a couple things WHICH YOU DON'T HAVE TO READ!! BY ALL MEANS SKIP THIS AND CONTINUE (✿◠‿◠)  
> But if you're interested: I am English, and so the English terminology in here is rife. A few things to bear in mind:
> 
> • The British school system is, generally speaking (there are exceptions), a Secondary school which spans ages 11 to 18, starting at year 7 and ending at year 13. The last two years of this are sometimes called ‘Sixth Form’, or even take place in a completely different ‘College’. In this fic I’m following the pattern which my own school follows, which is that Sixth Form - or years 12 and 13 –are an attached part of a Secondary School rather than their own separate unit.  
> • OVER HERE A RUBBER IS AN ERASER. NOT A CONDOM. THANK YOU. (◕‿-)
> 
> Also, you may have noted in the tags that there are indeed no pairings within One Direction itself, and while there are several romantic couples, there is also no smut. I must say, I don’t actually particularly ship any of the Boys with any of the others, and the bar I set myself when writing is to produce a piece of work which I would not be ashamed of if the Boys themselves were ever to read it ✖‿✖ One of the things I love most about our Boys is actually the genuine friendship and wholly different kind of love between them all, and that’s always what I try to aim for in my fanfics. I think it’s fantastic, and just as valuable as a relationshipy kind of love. Hence: no smut.
> 
> The title of this fic is a Chess term - as are all of the Chapter titles: I picked each term because they represent certain moves by certain peices which have some symbolic resonance with what goes on in the chapter. For instance, for the title, the 'Lady' in chess is the Queen, and to 'bring out the lady' means - in a game of chess - to develop the Queen, which I think has beautiful metaphorical resonance ∩(︶▽︶)∩ This is also why there are no chapter summaries btw, because, ah, if you're as much of a chess nerd as me, then the titles themselves will give you clues. Yeah, it's a bit of a theme. Hahah sorry - I just kinda love chess (◑‿◐)
> 
> Also I do want to draw attention to the trigger warning as well: I don’t write about self-harm or suicide -or any mental disorder arbitrarily, or for the sake of being overly dramatic. Indeed, self-harm plays a larger role in this fic than I had initially planned, probably because it’s been on my mind a lot lately. If lately means, like, the last half a decade. Writing this fic has been one major way of letting me process all of that and also to articulate my fear and frustration at how the School system in our country just has absolutely no way of helping people through things like this. It disgusts me how flimsy the in-school professional support network is for people suffering from depression - or self-harm or eating disorders, for that matter. I feel like school is also a particularly dangerous time for anybody who IS dealing with these things, and that adults, like teachers or parents, seldom understand the deeply harmful effect a harsh school environment can have on us: like, sometimes, just because it doesn’t manifest in something drastic doesn’t mean we’re coping. At all.
> 
> If you are someone who can identify with the things that happen in this fic, whether it’s anything from the bullying to the self-harm to the simple but devastating feeling of being lonely, I hope and pray that my story will be a comfort to you instead of something that’s difficult and painful to read. Rest assured that even if you don’t have a Harry Styles to turn to, there are people who are just waiting to help you and listen to you and make you brownies and good things (◕‿◕✿) Sometimes all it takes is to ask. I want to encourage you and tell you that yes, school is one hell of a lonely place – but I think it’s like that for everybody. If you need to, don’t be afraid to talk to someone. I hope that I can give you courage by showing you that it’s not all bad.
> 
> I also want to say a massive thank you - firstly to YOU, for clicking on and reading my fic (づ｡◕‿‿◕｡)づ But also to my bffls Shentong, Jen, Lauren (for being a Grammar Nazi Queen), Bethan, Isla, Georgia, Sophie, Sammy and everybody at school who read this for me and told me off for making them cry. You are all my betas and have collectively convinced me that maybe this is a story worth posting (✿ ♥‿♥)
> 
> Also: shout out to Maryssa, for being proof that fanfiction can bring together beautiful friendships <3
> 
> And if you guys EVER want to drop me an e-mail, whether it be “hey your story sucks” or “OHEMGEE SOOO GOOD LOL YOLO!!!!1!!!ONE!!1!” or just “um, hello”, then I would be MORE than happy to hear from you :) just in case you can't find it elsewhere, I can be found at: kbbrianne@gmail.com and on Twitter @kbbrianne - please tweet me if you're reading!! (◑‿◐) (◕‿-) ✖‿✖ 
> 
> Such love,  
> God bless,
> 
> Kbbrianne  
> xoxoxox

Ahhh first day of the last year. Here goes nothing.

I try out some experimental opening lines in my head as I walk:

“Hi! I’m Diana. I’m new here.”

“Hi, yes, I’ve just joined this school for the last year. Could you show me around? I’m Diana, by the way.”

“Hello there, my name’s Diana. Call me Di.” 

That’s ridiculous. I’ve always hated being called ‘Di’: why would anyone like to be addressed in a manner which advocates suicide? Don’t call me ‘Di’. I tell myself to shut up.

Of course, it’s unfortunate that I happen to be starting a completely new secondary school on this final plunge into our nation’s charming education system, but hey-ho: single mum, takes work where she can find it – only child, doesn’t complain. Who am I to weigh my terror and discomfort and downright anxiety at a new school and a new term against the financial benefits and thus increased ease of life that come with my mum’s promotion and subsequent transfer away from Bradford to a new and fancier branch of whatever company it is that she works for? Actually, who DOES she work for?! I think it’s something to do with soap. A soapy-related desk-job. Of some kind. I dunno. I really ought to pay more attention.

She’s hardly around. I’m left to my own devices a lot of the time. She wanted to be here this morning, on my first day of school, but she had to leave at like half six or some hideous time to get a bus.

I told her that it’d be fine, and I’d feel more normal and at ease if I just followed the morning routine I’ve been following for like a decade now of just getting myself up, eating some cereal, throwing on my uniform and going. She bought it, but honestly right now I’m nearing the school building and I’m kind of wishing I had someone to throw up on.

No seriously, throwing up all on your own looks pathetic, but people would be more likely to be concerned for me if there was already a sympathetic skinny little woman bending down to wipe my mouth or whatever. 

That’s what my mum looks like: she’s skinny. Skinny skinny skinny. We both are. I’m super aware of it right now, as the crowds converge around me. I’m all elbows. I stick into the people around me and find myself not even pausing for breath as I murmur:

“sorrysorryohmygodi’msosorrysorrythatwasmeexcusemesorryexcusemesorrycanijustthankyousorry”

There are so many PEOPLE. This school is huge. I can feel anxiety starting to tighten my muscles.

I clutch my folders harder as I pop out of the relentless flow that’s carried me inside the building and I find myself banging into a wall of lockers. I breathe deeply for a moment. 

“Ayyy Zayn! Put it here, brother,” a tall, muscular, quite gorgeous, stocky, muscular guy with short hair is calling out to his friends not a few feet away from me. Did I mention he’s muscular, because

MUSCLES.

“Payno, ay brother,” and I am instantly distracted by the guy fist-bumping him. Who is also tall, but lean, also muscular, with swish dark hair and tattoos just visible on his arm below his denim jacket. 

Part of me is hissing internally at this violation of quite clear uniform rules. No outside wear inside. Quite simply. Where does this ‘Zayn’ person think he is? America, or something??

The rest of me is in a kind of semi-terrified swoon. Other guys crowd around them and it’s clear I’ve parked myself right in the vicinity of the popular crew, all returning fresh from a summer of working out and driving cars and snogging, or whatever it is popular people do. 

My anxiety is getting the better of me and I scuttle away quickly.

The morning passes uneventfully. Zayn appears again in my English class, and I’m fairly sure I could’ve gotten away with never, ever, ever appearing on his radar if the teacher hadn’t introduced me.

I for serious thought I’d die. The only thing which stopped me fainting there and then, under the gaze of the class, was repeating the directions of my therapist:

‘Slow breathing. Keep breathing. Count your breaths. Calm.’

As it happens, I deeply miss my therapist. She is in fact one of the only people I miss, out of the whole several hundred people from back home who never bothered to make friends with me. Thanks to my therapist, I haven’t had a panic attack for going on a year now, and have managed to not self-harm for two. For sure, the hardest year was the one where pain relief hadn’t been an option for letting out some of the tension that had periodically flooded my system.

But there is no way I am turning back to it now. I’ve won that battle. And as I keep telling myself, I’m never going to surrender. Ever. 

I might just, however, eat lunch in the library. Because, frankly, that’s where I’m most likely to find the company of potential non-friends who will return my mutual ignoring of the world as I bury myself in a book for 45 minutes every day.

The library in this place is pretty cool. There’s a little corner full of beanbags, which is where I head as soon as I spot it. I nervously sink all the way down onto a black one by a shelf, tugging the next book in Anne McCaffrey’s Dragonrider series from my bag.

I kind of dryly chew a sandwich as I read. Some Dragons hatch and some people burn, but for the next half hour nothing really happens. Until-

“Ooh, ow, ouch, oh, hi, hi there, hello, oh, I am so, so sorry, oh man, oh, SORRY!” Some cute kid just rounded the corner backwards, holding a chair, and has promptly stumbled over my feet. And when I say cute, I don’t mean it in the crass valley-girl fashion: I mean he is genuinely adorable. Huge rimmed glasses, very neat uniform, well combed hair and a button nose. Also a look of complete horror on his crimson face.

Aghast at my own awkwardness, I withdraw my feet at great speed. “Oh cripes, I am sorry-“

“No, no I’M sorry, it was my fault-“

“No, my bad-“

“Should’ve watched where I was going-“

We both kind of stutter into quietness, neither making eye contact, and after a moment he moves on, dragging his chair, ears still bright pink. 

My heart’s racing, but I feel okay. No one here means me any ill will, and this kid at least seems just as awkward around people as I do. I breathe easier.

And then I choke on my own spit.

Some kind of God has just stalked past me, apparently intent on the weedy kid who tripped over my gangly, obtrusive limbs. HE is clearly not at ease here, but in a way that doesn’t look right even in a room of people who are probably never at ease. He’s definitely not a bookworm, and doesn’t look much like he wants to play chess with little mister apologetic, either. 

In fact, my mind instantly compares him to Zayn and Liam, whom I remembered with no small degree of glee from that morning, because

TATTOOS.

and

MUSCLES.

And boy does this guy have them, too. He also has the most unusually beautiful curly hair I have ever seen, kind of all over the place but tidy at the same time. And dayyum but black skinny jeans and ankle boots never looked so good.

I nearly drool on my book.

He’s tall and wears the compulsory uniform blazer over a quite probably forbidden white v-neck tee. And let me tell you, the only reason any teacher would ever call him out on it would be jealousy. 

He stomps past me, nimbly avoiding my legs, which, to be fair, are now clutched to my chest. I’m definitely having heart palpitations.

Much to my incredulity, he does actually seem to be after the little weedy guy. Weedy being a descriptive fact, not an insult. I subconsciously sit up a little straighter.

“Oi, you dingbat! Answer your phone!” He calls. 

The kid, now sat at one of the chess tables, whips around, startled. “Harry! I’m so sorry-“

“Quit apologising, s’okay. Knew you’d be here. Hey, you forgot your sandwiches,” he holds them out to him. I can’t see his face but his voice is surprisingly kind. Considering he just called ...him... a dingbat. I conclude that they must be brothers. Actually, despite the completely one-sided distribution of hotness, they do look a little similar: something in the face-shape and the nose, I think. 

“Thanks,” the kid takes the sandwiches, beaming up at... Harry. He’s called Harry. I file it away for future fantasising. 

“No problem. Hey, your day going okay?”

“Um, yeah, actually! Marco said he’d play me at chess, but he hasn’t finished eating yet, so I’m waiting for him.” He lowers his voice slightly, but it still carries in the hush of the library. “I also just tripped over that girl over there. I think she’s new here. I feel quite bad...”

I try to stare fiercely at my book, and fail to not glance up. They’re both looking at me. Harry’s face splits into a grin as we make eye contact. I go bright red. Just like his brother. 

“Hi! Hope Markle here didn’t maim you!” He calls out to me. It’s a bloody good thing I’m sitting still because if I’d been doing anything at that moment, it would’ve gone horribly wrong and I no doubt would've found something to trip over. 

I look up again, face on fire. He’s still looking at me, but... Mark... is his name Mark? Is that what Harry said? Mark has his face in his hands.

“Oh my God, go away Harry,” says ... him... through his fingers. Harry laughs and turns to poke him in the shoulder. I smile a little in spite of myself. The camaraderie between the two brothers is endearing, to say the least. And actually quite impressive: not to be judgemental, but there’s quite an evident social gap between them. It’s obvious that Harry has that kind of assured confidence and good looks which don’t even touch a sphere like the one his brother and I share. And yet they speak to each other with obvious mutual enthusiasm and no small degree of affection.

“Alright, Imma get out of here before your nerd vibes start improving my grades or something,” says Harry. He doesn’t reply, so Harry ruffles his brother’s hair, annoying him fondly, and then ruffles his own as he stalks back out again, sparing me a parting grin that leaves me quaking in my boots.

I ogle after him for about seven thousand years. What kind of attractive, image-conscious popular guy comes to the school library during lunchtime to give his nerdy chess-playing younger brother sandwiches?! The only answer I have is an exceptionally non-judgemental, considerate and kind one. ‘A considerate and kind popular person – do they even exist?’ I think.

Then I think ‘uh-oh, I know this feeling’, and look at the clock.

Damn. Less than four hours; I hadn’t even lasted one full day of school before fixating on some hopelessly attractive, unattainably popular guy. A kind and considerate one too. This had better not turn into something stupid – like a crush.

This kid’s friend Marco never shows, and I kinda feel sorry for him. It almost makes me want to talk to him – I know how lonely feels. Of course, befriending... Mark... would, of course, not be a way of getting closer to Harry... would certainly not be an easy path towards this enigma of a person who cares for his brother to the extent that he brings him sandwiches at lunchtime and ruffles his hair... of course...

GOD, Diana, get a grip. Why is he even bothering me so much??

I stare into the floor. I am a product of years of never meeting the eyes of the people around me. Yet... Harry... has not only held my gaze – he has held my interest. He spoke to me. He involved me. I mean, eye contact in itself is more involvement in someone else’s life than I’m used to – my therapist and my mum being the only exceptions.

I dunno, it IS my first day, so maybe I’m about to be in for a long run of people being absurdly friendly towards me, but if Harry can love someone like his brother as much as he obviously does, then maybe he can love someone like me... Maybe people like me are actually loveable.

It’s a weird thought. And one I don’t really know how to begin to understand.

But then, there is something I understand; God, does it really only take 40 seconds to start liking someone?!

I sigh, and prepare myself for next lesson.

If that’s the way it’s going to be, I may as well resign myself to it.


	2. A Réti Opening

It takes me the best part of two weeks to discover that the chess kid’s name is not, in fact, Mark. It’s Marcel.

“Marcel!”

I jump about fifty feet in the air, roughly speaking, and drop everything in my arms. A blonde Irish guy just yelled in my face how the hell was I supposed to not throw my folders right back at him oh my God breathe- “MARCEL- Oh crap, sorry, hey, lemme help you with that...”

Said Irish guy doubles back and bends down, right here in the middle of the corridor, to help me pick up my things: if I blush any harder my head’s going to explode. He seems distracted though, craning around. 

“There you go, sorry again.” He hands me my purple pencil case and I stutter out a thank you. Apparently I had been right when I had wildly speculated that Harry’s unnerving friendliness might be a school-wide phenomenon. As I turn to go I’m surprised to discover that the Marcel to whom he was shouting is in fact the guy from the library. Harry’s brother. My stomach impersonates a wobble-board and I blink a little, shifting my bag further onto my shoulder. “Hey, if you see Harry, can you tell him that I can’t come to football after school – I’ve got a new guitar to pick up! YUSSSS!”

The blond Irish kid punches the air and I nearly drop all my folders again.

The two of them have a brief conversation, in which Marcel identifies Cutie Blond Irish Adorable And Apparently Musical Guy as ‘Niall’, and then I realise that I’m going to get trampled if I stay where I’m standing. I scoot, but not before noting with some care that Harry does football practice on Thursday nights. 

Good God: tall, attractive, kind, funny, AND sporty.

I’m caught up in rapturous daydreaming until the end of school, when I decide to delay as long as possible at my locker, then I walk out the back way, past the training field. Very slowly, I might add.

Sure enough, there are already a plethora of sweaty guys out there. I can see Liam and Zayn and other nameless popular people, and there’s Harry – I blush, even though I’m like twenty miles away – passing a ball back and forth with another (ANOTHER) attractive guy with tussled brown hair. 

I find out the very next day that he’s called Louis, and that apparently there’s no small degree of rivalry between Harry and Liam.

“-Of course, it’s not Harry’s fault. Harry was going out with Danielle for like a solid two years – you probably don’t know who she is – then at Lou’s house party – oh, Lou is Louis, by the way. He’s my boyfriend. Yeah, I know, riiight? I’m so lucky. He’s so fantastic. But, like, so: Liam turns up and like hooks up with Danielle at Lou’s house party in, like, the first week of year 12. And of course Harry’s furious. And heartbroken. Which is not a good combination, ‘cause Harry’s a lovely guy. But it’s totally understandable, so you really can’t blame him for beating Liam to a pulp right there and then. Or at least trying to-”

This girl called Eleanor is talking to me at a gazillion miles an hour. I don’t know whether to interrupt her or prompt her to breathe. I just keep nodding and smiling, a rabbit caught in a powerful pair of benevolent headlights.

“Yeah, there was this massive fight. Like, loads of people took sides, as well. Niall and Lou stuck by Harry, obviously, ‘cause Harry hadn’t done anything wrong, but, like, Zayn and Liam have been best friends since, like, forever, ‘cause Liam really took Zayn under his wing when he first moved here, see, so Zayn stuck by him. So did loads of other people. Liam IS quite popular, besides being a bit of a dou-“

“Right, settle down class. Eleanor, please put your makeup away.” 

We’re in History, and Eleanor is my new partner. She seems lovely. Or at least, very friendly. And only just got back from a holiday in Majorca, hence the no-longer-empty seat next to me. It seems my strategic choice of seating two weeks ago at the beginning of term has backfired on me slightly.

I smile at her quickly as we get out our folders, and she grins swiftly back. God, I hope I’m not coming across as hostile – I just – I have no idea what to say.

Which could be alright, as Eleanor loves talking, I quickly discover. And I’m not actually wholly opposed to listening: amongst praising Louis incessantly for hours at a time, she talks quite a lot about Harry.

And heaven knows I’m not opposed to THAT.

I don’t know anymore whether I’m more attracted to the possibility that I might be someone somebody might come to care about – a dangerous assumption for which I have pretty much no precedent – or the idea that it could be someone as popular as Harry who might come to care for me. And if I’ve learnt anything in the past few weeks, it is that Harry is DEFINITELY popular. The only times I’ve really seen him have been in the corridors and at breaktimes, and he’s nearly always surrounded by a cluster of loud, laughing, fairly gorgeous people. I have also noticed that there are a fair few who watch him as avidly as I do, but with a different kind of fixation in their eyes – a hostility and a wariness that makes me feel a little bit sick – not least because it’s a look I often fear I will find if I dare to meet people’s eyes.

Not Harry’s, though. Somehow he doesn’t scare me as much as make me wistful. Him and his lovely laughing friends. Imagine being as loved as that – as accepted. As cared for. I think maybe I’m not just attracted to Harry – maybe I am in fact a little bit in love with the idea of being part of such a group. Of ANY group.

Which is why this is such a stupid, unhelpful, DANGEROUS daydream. It’s hard enough for me to want to be the person I already unfortunately am, let alone to want to be someone I have absolutely no hope of being – someone Harry would call a friend. Someone ANYONE would call a friend. Someone popular.

Someone like Eleanor: she’s definitely one of the popular crew. It’s both massively alarming and massively honouring that she’s even deigned to talk to me in class, so even though I don’t really see her much out of class for the first few weeks, I don’t really expect to. She knows everything there is to know about Harry, though, and while I’m not learning as much as I might be about the British Empire, or the Indian Mutiny, or Lord Curzon, I spend my time by her side in History lessons highly captivated.

“D’you know, Liam’s group of friends is practically a pack of wolves,” she hisses to me one lesson. She’s fiercely anti-Liam, apparently.

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, we call them the ‘Payne’ pack. Like, the other day we were all hanging out in the skate park, y’know, the one down from Tesco’s – oh no wait you probably don’t, you’re new. But we’re all just mucking around, y’know, like, the usual, and then Lou goes ‘ohp, here comes Payne.’ Like, that’s just what we call them – we call them ‘Payne’, because it’s like a play on words-“

“Like a pun? On ‘pain’?”

“Yeah! Cause some of his friends can actually get quite violent. They beat up this kid in year 10 once. They’re horrible.” She shudders dramatically. “Liam’s not though. He’s okay. He’s not violent, I mean. Obviously he’s awful, because he just hooks up with any and everybody. But’s like nobody has the power to evade his ‘charm’-“ she performs the quotation marks with well-manicured fingers “-but his friends are all, like, really loyal to him. Mostly ‘cause he does all their homework for them. Yeah, I know right, the guy’s like a proper genius. Total workaholic. But not actually violent.”

That’s one thing I can say about Eleanor: she’s very fair minded. Indeed, even her own dedicated attachment to Louis doesn’t stop her spouting evaluations of his friends.

“Mm, Harry looked great this morning, don’t you think?”

I grin to myself, heart giving a flutter. “Absolutely. Loved his boots.” I’m just about reaching the point where I can say things out loud without fainting from insecurity. I’m still not past the huge flattery of actually being spoken to, though. I doubt that I ever will be.

“Ahh, I know, right? Boots and skinny jeans: highlight of my winter.” She winks at me. “Although Lou looks so cute in Vans I wouldn’t have him any other way.” It’s October now and Eleanor and I are getting along swimmingly.

So swimmingly, in fact, that she invites me along to guitar group.

I’m so shocked I drop my pen. “Seriously? You want me to come?”

“Yeah! I mean, I thought to ask you along, like, the other day, ‘cause I know you mentioned you played guitar and everything-“ she looks slightly unsure, handing my pen back to me.

I think I’m going to choke. “I’d love to!” And I really would. I’m delighted. I mean- I’m absolutely terrified, but delighted. I can’t believe it – it feels so, so good to have a friend. And while Eleanor has her own group to hang around with at lunchtimes, and I totally get that, the hand of friendship she’s just extended to me is almost more than anything I’ve ever had my entire life. I’m already second third and fourth guessing both her and myself – what if she’s only doing this out of courtesy? What if she doesn’t actually want to talk to me at all but is too kind to say so? What if-

I take a deep breath and quiet myself by counting. She asked me to go. I need to trust that. I need to trust Eleanor. That’s how friendship goes, isn’t it – trust?

And so it’s agreed. Guitar group’s on a Tuesday, so I nervously agree to meet her after school the next day by the music corridor.

I find myself grinning as I walk into the library that lunchtime.

I’m met with a sorry sight, though: Marcel is sitting on one of the beanbags, right next to my usual spot. His head’s on his knees and, while I can’t see his face, I’m fairly sure he’s crying.

There’s an awkward pause. God, I’m going to have to talk to him oh my God what do I even say?? I sink down to my seat, looking at him. There’s nobody else in this corner of the library. 

The warmth of Eleanor’s thoughtfulness gives me confidence where I would usually have bowed my head and done nothing, and so I say in a quiet voice,

“Uuh, hey, Marcel... you okay?”

He gives a tremendous sniff and raises his head. God, the poor kid’s a wreck. I pull my beanbag in closer.

“N-no. No, sorry, yes- I mean, I’m okay. Sorry-“ he jolts a little and keeps sobbing, silently. 

“Hey, hey, you don’t need to apologise. Um, I mean, it’s none of my business, but... what’s happened? Do you want me to... to get someone?” 

I fret for a few long minutes while he’s busy crying too hard to answer. He pulls himself together though, and hiccups at me distractedly:

“There’s nothing- wrong with me, is there though? I mean- I’m just- I’m not- It’s okay to be... me.”

What. I blink. Oh, right, okay, he’s having an existential crisis. Um, okay. We can deal with this. C'mon Diana. Be human. “Is someone giving you grief for being you?” I say gently, leaning in. He nods. “Well...” I don’t really know what to say. I chew my lip instead. 

Then he sighs heavily and lets go of his knees.

“Holy crap, you’re bleeding! Marcel, what’s happened to your hands?” I nearly jump to my feet, frightened by a sudden thunderstorm of associations.

“No, no, no, it’s okay! It’s not-“ he wipes his nose on his sleeve, looking down at his palms “-it’s not too bad. I mean, don’t... tell... anyone. I mean, it doesn’t hurt too much...”

Ridiculous. Of course it hurts. I know exactly how much that hurts. I look at him and say: “Okay that last part was a blatant lie.” He almost laughs. “Come on, I’m taking you to a bathroom.”

I totally get the not telling anyone part. I have always hated having an unnecessary fuss made over me by first aid nurses who don’t get paid enough to actually care. I gingerly help Marcel to his feet, trying to avoid looking at the blood. There’s a lot of it for a graze. Something else catches my eye though.

“Hey, you’re limping. Your leg okay?”

He winces heavily. “Uh, ye-“ and then I have to catch him as he buckles. So that’s a no then. Awkwardly we kind of work out a way of me getting my arm around him so I can support most of his weight. I’m nervous and embarrassed, both for myself and for Marcel, but he’s as white as a sheet, and so I try to fiercely not care much that we get a couple funny looks hopping out of the library.

There’s a handy disabled toilet close by. We duck in there and lock the door.

“Okay, let’s sit you down on here- and, okay, lemme see your hands.” I’m shaking a little. I don’t normally interact with humans for any extended period of time. For his sake, though, I persevere on my trek out into the unknown wilderness beyond my comfort zone.

He sits on the closed toilet lid and wearily holds out his palms. I’m very good at dealing with cuts. No nonsense, no squeamishness, I just get on with it. Doesn’t mean I like it, though. This could have horrible consequences for me – but I try not to think about that right now. Just to keep breathing and be human. Swallow the monster. I dampen a paper towel and start gently wiping his hands. “This looks horrible... What happened?”

I’m just trying to get him to talk to me a little bit. Partially to take my mind away from remembering countless silent evenings when I’d be dealing with the same on my own arms. But also partially because I’m quite worried about the look of deep misery on his face. It’s too familiar.

“Um, nothing. I- I fell.”

“You FELL.” I watch him for a moment. “Marcel, you’re a dreadful liar, m’kay?”

He sniffs. “Hey, um, how do you know my name, by the way?”

He looks up and meets my eye for maybe the first time. I smile at him. “Remember the first day of school?”

“Oh, yeah! You were the one I tripped over...”

“Yup. And for the longest time I thought you were called Markle, but then I overheard you and Niall chatting, and uh, found out your real name.” God, Diana, you’re really no good at this whole conversation thing why don’t you just shut up for a while-

“Markle’s what Harry calls me. It’s- Ah! Ow-“

“Oh crap, sorry-“

“No it’s fine...” there’s a pause. “So, what’s your name?”

“Oh sorry, I should’ve said – so rude of me – I’m Diana.” 

“Oh... cool. Hi, Diana,” he smiles shyly.

“Hey there, Mister Styles.” Good God why did I just say that.

He laughs. I don’t think anybody in the history of ever has found me funny before and I have absolutely no idea how to react. “Ahaaha that’s what our mum calls us. And I’m not even going to ask how you know the surname – you’re in Harry’s year, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, he’s so popular. Practically everyone fancies him. Can’t figure out why.” He rolls his eyes, blushing slightly.

Man, Marcel’s sassy side is absolutely delightful. I breathe and try to relax a little. Maybe this human interaction thing doesn’t have to be so bad. “Ahaha, I bet you get a lot of that.” I pull a bandage out of my bag and bind his palms. I always carry bandages. And this isn’t the first time they’ve come in handy in a school situation.

“Oh, sure.” He fixes a shrewd gaze on me. “Do YOU?”

“Do I what?” I say too quickly, dropping a wad of tissue and going bright red and oh my God be more obvious please-

“Like, do you ‘like’ my brother?”

“AAND onto your leg!” 

But I can’t keep the grin off my face and he fakes a shocked gasp. “I knew it! I bet the only reason you’re even helping me is to get into his skinny jeans. Ugh, I wish he’d hurry up and get a girlfriend- having to deal with all his suitors is SUCH a pain!”

He looks so mischievous and cheeky, perched there on the edge of the toilet, staring up at me, that I burst out laughing. If nothing else from complete astonishment. Oh my God this kid – okay, breathe, Diana – you’re probably annoying him.

After I’ve calmed, he says: “but sincerely, thank you, Diana, for, um, for doing this.” He gestures to his myriad injuries and the bloody tissues in the sink. Oh hey, maybe not so annoying then. I glow.

“Aw hey, it’s no problem. And I was being serious – is your leg okay? Is it bleeding too or have you just bruised it or something?”

“Uhh...” he leans down and rolls up his trouser leg. I nearly gasp.

“Holy shit – Marcel, how are you even breathing right now?! Oh my God...”

He winces. “It does look bad, doesn’t it? I promise it’s okay-“

“Noo, this is NOT ‘okay’. C’mere.” I get to my knees and immediately start preparing a wad more of paper towels. There’s a lot of blood here and as it clears, I can see some very distinct early bruising patterns all the way up his shin. Marcel’s quieter. I look up at him. He’s grimacing heavily and his eyes are closed.

“S’okay. Deep breathing,” I murmur. Urgency has overtaken my anxiety a little. He draws a shuddering breath. “How’s the other leg?”

“That one’s fine,” he whispers. I bite my lip.

We don’t say anything more for a few minutes. This wound is still bleeding. I try to work quickly. I don’t have any antiseptic, which is unfortunate, but I do my best with warm soapy water and bandages. 

I’m fairly certain nobody who has a fall this bad wouldn’t come crying for help immediately. Marcel’s head is bowed and I really don’t want to make him uncomfortable or upset, but at the same time...

I like him. I want him to be okay. And not just right now: always. It’s a new thing for me, friendship, but I think that’s how it goes.

Okay, deep breath.

“So...” I start, watching him carefully. “You ‘fell’, then...”

He meets my eye slowly. “Okay, so... like, no, I didn’t.” His voice is nearly a whisper. But that could be because he’s in quite a lot of pain. My heart breaks for him. “Not... as such.”

“Pushed?”

It takes him a minute to respond, but eventually he nods. I give him my best sympathetic look of understanding. 

I’m about to ask who pushed him, but with no warning at all, Marcel bursts out:

“Pushed and pushed around ALL the time, like I’m not a decent human being. All the time, like, since I even started coming to this school. And it’s not like it’s Harry’s fault, but I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t notice me at all if I wasn’t his brother-“ and he’s crying again “-and I love him so much and I don’t want him to know, because I know exactly how he’d react and I don’t want him getting into a fight again, but there’s no one else I can tell and there’s nothing I can do, and I hate it and I wish I wasn’t scared of them and somehow I always feel guilty, even though there’s nothing wrong with me – there’s nothing wrong with being gay-“

He gasps and stares at me in fear. I’m startled by this unreserved outburst, but I know what ‘desperately-need-to-say-this-out-loud-to-another-human-being’ looks like, and I’m more than happy to be that human being.

“Is that the first time you’ve said that aloud?” I say gently.

He looks absolutely petrified for a minute, but slowly nods. Then-

“Actually, not really- I mean, kinda- I just- it’s never just... come out... quite like that...”

“You mean YOU’ve never come out quite like that?” I snigger at my own bad joke. Then I want to slap myself. God.

But he smiles. “I’ve never come out at all, actually. Not even Harry knows. So... yeah. Congrats. You’re the first person to know – except...”

“Except...?”

He scrutinises me for a moment. I’m done with his leg so now I’m just sitting here, gazing earnestly up at him. I’m feeling remarkably at ease in his presence.

He sighs. “Ah, you might as well know. I – yeah, I have a boyfriend. He’s the only one who knows – who knew. You do too, now.”

This adorable slow blush crosses his cheeks and he seems to bloom into himself with happiness. I smile.

“Aw, aw I’m pleased for you! What’s his name? Not that I’ll know him, but...”

Marcel’s face falls slightly. “Ah, well, there’s the thing. He’s called Leeroy... and, well... He’s Liam Payne’s cousin.” 

“Ah.” I rock back slightly, understanding at last not only the worry etched into his youthful face but the bruises on his leg and the blood on his hands. I shudder.

“Ah indeed.”

There’s a companionable silence as we both stare into some pretty grim daydreams, I’m sure. I think of the state of Marcel’s leg, his unwillingness to meet my eye or talk about it. Empathy for him fills me with disgust.

“And I’m guessing the Payne pack has found out, and are less than pleased that their ‘noble leader’-“ I’m practically spitting the words, I’m so bitter, wow “-has this ‘homo’ slight to his oh-so-heterosexual reputation.”

Marcel doesn’t say anything. Just looks miserable. 

“I can’t believe they did this to you. To YOU! Why would anyone want to hurt YOU: you’re great,” I say grumpily, putting my chin on my arms. Then I realise I’ve just said that aloud and freeze up.

He brightens enormously. “Seriously? You- uh, you think I’m great?” There’s a gorgeous shyness to his glee. I laugh, breathing again.

“For sure! Um, I mean, for one thing, I spend all my lunchtimes watching you murder people at chess, so, like, yeah. You’re funny, you’re a genius, and you’re, like, ridiculously nice.” I blush bright red. “And I’m not just saying that because I, what did you say, ‘want to get into Harry’s skinny jeans’-“ I have to break off and take a deep breath at even the thought of the thought. “I- sorry, yeah. No, I mean it. I... I mean, I don’t really have a lot of friends, and I’m not very good with people, but... I dunno, sorry. I just don’t want you to feel like you’re not a cool person, just because you’re gay, or whatever. Like, that shouldn’t even matter.” I mumble my way to a stop, embarrassed.

But when I look up, he’s beaming at me. In a tired sort of way.

“Thanks, Diana.” 

“Y’welcome.”

We chat amicably for a while; he is horrified by the fact that I have no idea how to play chess, and immediately insists on teaching me. I agree to it, feigning reluctance, but secretly I’m thrilled. It’s basically a concrete reason to chat to him every lunchtime. Which delights me. And I find that the longer we talk, the more I really meant what I said: I like Marcel – completely and individually of my obsession with Harry. While Eleanor has included me by talking TO me, I feel like Marcel and I are almost including each other by talking. And the more we talk, the easier I breathe. And then he has to go and ask me why I have bandages with me.

I pause for just a little too long before answering.

He blurts out: “oh, I’m really sorry- I didn’t mean to, like, sorry...”

I laugh it off. “No, it’s okay, I just...” I’m considering telling him, actually. Admitting to what no one but my therapist has ever known. After all, he’s confided in me...

But then, in a strange moment, the bell rings. We both jump and stare at each other.

“Man, that’s really weird, it feels like we’ve been in here forever.”

“I know, right!” He agrees with me vehemently, then makes to stand up. “Wooa-“

I scramble to my feet and grab him before he can fall on his face. “Woah there, woah, okay, okay, uhh... sit down. Just- okay, breathe. You okay?”

“Yeah- just- aaahh, ouch. My leg really hurts,” he admits, in a voice full of shame.

I snort. “C’mon Marcel, suffering pain doesn’t make you weak. And admitting to it just proves and improves strength.” Pretty much word for word quoting my therapist, there.

He nods faintly. “M’kay. Uhh, I don’t feel so good...”

“No, you don’t look so good either.”

“D’you think... do you think you could help me make it to Maths?

I laugh outright at this. “You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m not taking you to MATHS- if anywhere, I’m sending you home. You do actually need to properly clean those injuries sometime soon. And I think you’ve lost enough blood to be feeling pretty crumby.”

He shakes his head frantically- “no, if I go home now my mum will worry unnecessarily about me for months.” 

“Well... I dunno, Marcel, if Payne’s doing things like this to you, maybe she should be.”

His mouth twists into a grimace. “Payne’s friends.”

“What?”

“Liam himself didn’t do this. It was some of his friends- Si and... and someone. They, um, they pushed me into the bins.”

I hug him, completely spontaneously. I don’t think I’ve hugged anybody who isn’t my mum or my therapist in about ten years. And that’s not much of an exaggeration, either.

I let go quickly, heart thumping, but he seems pleased.

“Well, we can’t stay in a bathroom for the next two hours,” he mumbles. “Hey, d’you wanna see something cool?”

His whole face lights up and I smile in spite of myself. In spite of everything.

I then spend a very pleasant two hours with Marcel in the library, while he shows me what he’s working on in Computer Science. He’s massively into it and starts there and then teaching me basic html. Which I totally majorly Do Not Get, but that doesn’t seem to faze him. He’s in his element.

I’m getting on so well with Marcel, in fact, that I’m quite sad when the end of the day nears. I dunno, there’s just something unquashably positive about his quiet demeanour – it’s somehow life affirming to be around. Which means that every minute I spend with him I get angrier and angrier about how he’s being treated. I guess that’s also how friendship goes.

The final bell rings. Marcel looks at me and pushes his glasses up his nose. “Um, I don’t want to inconvenience you, but, um, could you possibly...?”

“Hey, sure!” 

We wait five minutes, so that most of the furious crowd has abated, then I help him hop down the stairs. This takes a painful further ten minutes, but we eventually make it to the rink at the front of the school grounds. 

His mum is waiting there, in a silver car. For half a second I panic, wondering if Harry – fabulous, gorgeous, talented Harry, of whom dear Marcel speaks so highly – could be sitting in the back seat, looking at me and my inadequate dyed red hair and my overly-protruding elbows and my deep-set eyes which always make me look like I’m a drugged-up insomniac and and and oh my God breathe-

But there’s no one else in the car.

“MARKLE!!”

“Ugh, mum, not you too,” he grumbles. I laugh shakily.

“Marcel, my darling boy, what happened?! Are you okay? Is he okay? What happened? You should’ve called me, Marcel! Hello, I’m Anne, Marcel’s mum, sorry-“

I smile at her, too intimidated to say much. She’s just as gorgeous as the rest of her family, which both irrationally annoys me and despairs me in equal measure. I manage to shyly introduce myself, and between Marcel’s exasperated interruptions and my timid contributions, we eventually calm her down and convince her that yes, her baby boy is fine, just a bit tired, yes, he’s already said, he’s fine, no, nothing ‘happened’, he just fell and no, there’s no one she needs to set Harry on.

I don’t even have to check in a glance with Marcel to pursue that line of falsehood. I know how he feels about that already.

But I do love the idea of Anne setting Harry on Marcel’s tormentors. Like a wolfhound in the hands of an avenging Queen.

God, I love this family.

“Well, Diana, I cannot possibly thank you enough for looking after my baby. Can we give you a lift anywhere?”

“I-“ Marcel smiles encouragingly at me. “Um, yes, thank you. That’d be great,” I blush in gratitude and clamber into the back while Anne helps Marcel into the front seat. He’s regained some colour over the course of the afternoon, which is definitely a good thing. I have a feeling that, had Anne seen him earlier, she would’ve called an ambulance or something drastic. Maybe burnt the school down. Bombed London.

Anne talks easily and openly in the car, after asking me for my address and driving there in the most hilariously indirect way possible.

However, when we pull up-

“Diana, honey, it looks quite dark! Is anybody home, love?”

“Um, no, it’s just me. Until, like, eight o’clock. That’s when my mum gets home.”

“Ooh wow, that’s a long while to be on your own! Are you sure you don’t want to come to ours for tea? You’re quite welcome, you know.”

Instantly my thoughts jump to Harry. I damn near hyperventilate right there in the back of the car.

“Yeah, you could, y’know,” Marcel says quietly. Which only just makes it through my loud internal shouting. He sounds like he’d quite like me to – at least, I think.

This triple attack is too much for me to resist, and so, petrified, but grinning my head off, I agree breathlessly to Anne’s plans, and sit back in the car.


	3. The King's Gambit

I’M GOING TO BE INSIDE HIS HOUSE.

I’M GOING TO BE INSIDE HIS HOUSE.

I’M GOING TO BE INSIDE HIS HOUSE.

HIS HOUSE.

I’M GOING TO BE INSIDE IT.

INSIDE.

HIS HOUSE.

H I S H O U S E.

M E.

GOOD HEAVENS ABOVE.

I feel queasy.

We pull up outside this modest two floor affair. The garden’s well kept and simple. The whole place comes across as simple, actually: I love it. It’s stylish in an understated way. Like Harry. I gulp. Oh my God what if he’s home?

“Wha- sorry, pardon?” I realise Anne’s just said something to me.

Marcel twists in his seat and gives me a cheeky grin from the front. I can tell that he knows exactly what’s going through my mind.

“I just said we’re here,” she repeats jovially.

We all clamber out of the car. Anne’s helping Marcel, so I feel a little useless, but shyly follow them in.

My heart’s pounding painfully, but I breathe easier once it’s established that Harry isn’t home yet.

“No, I think he’s at Louis’ house. He’ll be back for tea, though, don’t worry sweetheart.” Anne ruffles Marcel’s hair in exactly the same way I’d seen Harry do a month ago. Then she smiles at me. “You will stay for dinner, won’t you? I’m afraid it’s just pasta today, nothing special.”

“That sounds wonderful, thank you so much. I, um, I usually just make myself toast… or, or soup or something, so…”

“So pasta sounds good, I bet,” she winks at me and then sends us upstairs, moving through to the kitchen to do whatever it is normal mums do.

It takes a while to get up the stairs. It’s down to me to help Marcel up the stairs and I’m so concentrated on the task that I don’t notice the look he’s giving me until we reach the landing.

“What?”

“Nothing!”

“Uh, right. So, which one’s yours?”

“That one,” he nods towards a door covered in concert tickets, which, in hindsight, is not very Marcel. It doesn’t register, though, so when I push open the door I’m hardly prepared for his totally duplicitous: “Oh no, wait, silly me! This is Harry’s room.” I nearly have a heart attack. I’m in Harry’s- oh my dear God-

I stare at him in absolute shock. “Are you even f-“

He nearly falls over laughing. “Your face!”

“-cking kIDDING ME RIGHT NOW?”

“AAAHAHAHAHAHAA DIANA!!”

“I cannot beLIEVe you!!”

“Priceless!!”

“I’m getting out of here. Right now. Oh my God, Marcel,” I’m laughing too though. I cannot believe how sneaky that was. I focus on berating him, instead of the slightly overwhelming fact that I am currently standing in Harry’s bedroom. Bed. Room. Harry. Styles. Bed. Harry.

These things in conjunction do not do healthy things to my adrenaline levels. I turn to stalk back out-

“No, no Diana, wait, seriously, sorry. I just wanted to see your face,” he snorts and sits down on Harry’s bed. I stand helplessly by the door. I’m trembling slightly. “C’mon, it’s okay. He won’t be home for ages,” he’s patting the bed beside him.

I nervously come and sit down. Cripes but this is a very bad idea.

Well at least, coming from Marcel, I don’t have to be worried that this is an advance into my pants.

“You really like him, don’t you?”

“I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer right now,” I splutter out in a whisper. I can’t quite see right. I am currently sitting on Harry’s bed. I may throw up. “This is ridiculous,” I mutter.

He chuckles. Then says quietly, “Harry hangs out with his friends a lot. Like I said, he’s, um, he’s really popular, so, like, he has a lot of…”

“Of friends?”

“Well… yeah. And I come in here whenever he’s not around.” He sounds melancholy. I look at him but he’s gazing up at the walls. We sit in peaceful silence for a moment, looking around together.

Honestly, I can see why he’d come in here: Harry’s really made the room his own. There isn’t a lot of furniture, but all his possessions are strewn artlessly around the room in a way that just makes it unmistakeably homey. There are piles and piles of CDs stacked along one wall; school books in a little disorganized heap next to a plugged in laptop on the floor; no desk, I notice; a football, just sitting, like a younger member of the family; band posters all over the walls – oh right yeah the concert tickets on the door – quite a few of these I actually know and know well, which is kinda weird but cool; a CD player-cum-iPod dock sat on the floor like a chubby radio; numerous clothes I try not to stare at, thrown about over the bed and the floor; sweet packets, a not-quite-empty paper tray of chips, shampoo bottles, hair gel (I KNEW it); an inbuilt wardrobe opposite me with a sliding mirror door-

I catch my own eye in the mirror and stare. For the first time, I meet my own gaze with something other than repulsion. Then I giggle. “I can’t even believe I’m sitting on his bed right now. Ugh,”

Marcel grins at me. 

“Actually I also can’t believe he makes his bed, I mean-“ I indicate the general state of untidiness in the room. 

He laughs. “He doesn’t. I come in and do it for him every morning.” I stare at him. “What?”

“Okay I’m not judgemental, but dude, that is totally not normal.”

He shrugs. “I just like it, I guess. C’mon, let’s go to my room: you were just about there with the basics of html. No, I’m okay, thanks, it’s just next door. I can hop,”

He smiles at me, and I follow him out, casting one hushed glance back into the heart of Harry’s own haven, then I reverently shut the door behind me. Probably forever.

Marcel’s room is much, like MUCH tidier, with a desk and a chunky old computer dominating the wall opposite his bed. It’s at the front of the house and seems lighter, but there’s something a bit too empty about it – like, it just doesn’t feel as lived in as Harry’s. As we sit together at his desk, I understand why Marcel prefers his brother’s room.

The next few hours pass quietly but interestingly. We give up on computer programming when it becomes apparent that I’m completely incapable of understanding anything to do with algorithms. Looking for payback, I force him to help me analyse a section of Paradise Lost for my English Homework. He feigns agony just as much as I had, but we’re both quite enjoying ourselves; it makes me feel nervous in a whole new and quite bearable way. 

Then, after the smell of Anne’s cooking – which, despite her assurances of simplicity, smells AMAZING – has lured us downstairs to the living room, Marcel is walking me through the basics on a beautiful wooden chess set, and the inevitable happens.

I’d almost – ALMOST – forgotten about Harry when the front door bangs open. The living room’s right by the entrance, so his voice cuts loud and clear through my confusion about prawns, or whatever they’re called, with a-

“I’M HOOOOME!! MUM – WHEN’S TEA??”

“Hey, Harry,” calls Marcel, without looking up from the chessboard. The front door slams shut. “Okay, so the Bishop’s just like the Rook, but moves diagonally, yeah? Diana? Dia-oh,“ he looks up, then breaks off, stifling a laugh at my expression. I’ve completely frozen up. Oh. My. God.

“Markle, my brother!” Harry clatters into the room, chucking a bike helmet at the porch behind him and running his hands through his hair. His gorgeous, perfect, curly, magnificent, brown, glorious-

“Oh, hi! Ugh, Marcel, you bring a girl home and make her play CHESS- good grief.” He winks at me. I nearly squeak oh my God he’s speaking to me  
ohmygodohmygodhe’sspeakingtomewhatdoidohesaidsomethingtomewhatdoidowhatdoidowhatdoisayohgodimustlooklikeamoronwhatdoisay-

“’kay I’m gonna get some food. M’starving,”

Marcel shouts after him as he leaves. “I don’t think that’s a good idea- mum’s already cooking! HARRY!!” 

“GOOD!” He yells back. Marcel turns back to the chessboard like I didn’t just have the most momentous moment of my existence thus far.

I let out an enormous breath and bury my face in my hands. Oh GOD.

“Ahaha, Diana? You okay?”

“I don’t think I can dooo this,” I mumble into my arms. I wish I had one of my hoodies on. I wear hoodies all the time at home. Really enormous comfy ones. I’m so skinny I can just bury myself inside them, and I do. All the time. Bloody school uniform.

“You’re fine! Seriously, Harry isn’t an awkward person. Just talk to him like you talk to me.”

“But I only MET you this afternoon!”

“Oh, yeah… wow, that’s really weird. I feel like I’ve known you for ages. I already consider us good friends.” He beams at me.

I smile back a little. “Me too. And I’m amazed I can even say that. But, ugh, but are you really okay with this? I mean, like, I am pretty much gonna have a panic attack every time Har- he-“ breathe “-even LOOKS at me – if he actually TALKS to me again I think I’ll go into meltdown. Not much of a great friendship, y’know?”

He’s giving me a curious look. “D’you get those a lot?” He asks quietly.

“Get what a lot?”

“Panic attacks.”

We look at each other for a long moment across the chessboard. I nod once. “Well... I used to. All the time. I used to have really bad anxiety. Kind of, aaha, kind of still do. But, uh, I had a therapist back where I used to live. And she was really helpful. Um, still is, in fact,” I swallow nervously, feeling exposed. Like I’ve rolled my sleeves up or something. Marcel’s not looking at me though, staring thoughtfully down at his Bishop.

“I have them too, sometimes.”

“They’re horrible.”

“They are.”

We don’t say anything for a moment.

Then I recover with: “So! My King can go anywhere, right? Like – left, right, up, down, sideways?”

“Yup,”

“Okay! So I can take your Rook then!”

“No you can’t!”

“Why not?!”

“The King can only move one square at a time-”

“What?? WHY? He’s the King! He should be able to do whatever the hell he likes! The BISHOP can move as far as he likes!?”

“Diana, that’s not how chess WORKS! Or Monarchy, for that matter.”

“Ugh, Church trumps head of state – I get it.”

And thus we continue until Anne calls us for tea.

“Um, you guys don’t do the whole family sit-down dinner-type things, do you?” All other reasons for nervousness aside, I don’t ever remember having a family dinner. Or a family.

Marcel nods and I’m instantly paralysed again, but he takes one of my pawns – not, as it turns out, prawns – and throws it at me jokingly. “C’mon, you. Just relax. You’ll be fine. He won’t even care that you’re here.”

“Right, ‘cause THAT makes me feel so much better,” I grumble.

It does start off okay actually. Anne’s all caught up in asking the boys how their days were as we sit down. She almost immediately starts telling Harry about Marcel’s fall and subsequent injuries, and my way into that conversation is quite easy and obvious.

“WHAT? You fell over?? How? When? You okay?!”

“Yeah, I’m fi-“

“Is there anyone I have to kill? Go, start listing names. I’m on it.”

“No, seriously-“

“Look, I know you don’t like ratting on people or whatever, but-“ Harry waves his fork at me and I nearly choke on pasta “-did he tell YOU?”

“Harry! Seriously, I just fell. You’ve seen me trying to play football – I’m really not that much better at just walking places.”

Harry grumbles into his food.

“Yes, Diana here took good care of him for us, didn’t you, Diana? Thank you so much, honey, we owe you one.”

I go bright red. Harry’s looking at me. I breathe and do the thing. With words. Speaking. I do the speaking. “Uhh, yes, I mean, he wasn’t that bad – I mean, his injuries. Weren't that bad. He’d only really scraped his hands, and uh…” I look at Marcel. I’m not sure how much he wants me to mention the bruising. “Actually, do you have any antiseptic? Because Marcel, your knee was cut quite deep. You might wanna clean it properly.”

Anne’s starts talking about the contents of their medicine cabinet but Harry’s still staring at me. I very carefully and deliberately put down my fork. Swallow. Then meet his eyes. I’m being careful to avoid asphyxiation, but his sheer proximity isn’t helping.

“You planning on doing medicine? At Uni, or something?”

“Um, what?”

“Just wondering how you know all this stuff. If I had to deal with Marcel falling over I’d probably just amputate his legs. S’not like you use them for anything,” he adds to his brother. Through quite a lot of food. I’ve just noticed how green his eyes are.

“Hey, I use them for plenty-“

“Yeah, yeah, whatever." His green eyes twinkle as he turns back to me. "Hey, what did you say your name was?”

“Yes – what – me? I mean, um, Diana. Hi.” Oh my God what is life.

“Aha! Are you, or are you not, the same Diana who sits next to Ells in History?”

I genuinely nearly fall off my chair. What on earth is gravity even doing right now oh my God I can’t look away. Anne had said he was at Louis’ house what if Eleanor was there too what if she talked about me oh God what did she say I wonder what she said oh my God he knows who I am oh my God oh my God oh my God- “Uh, yes, that’s me. I do... sit next- next to Eleanor. Yes.” Christ, shut up Diana. 

“Ah! Then you’re in MY year!” He looks extremely pleased with this deduction, and for some reason I find this really funny, so before I can even think about it, I’ve gone and said:

“Wow, no shit, Sherlock.”

There’s a moment when all three of them look at me.

“Oh CHRIST, sorry, did I say that out loud? I am so sorry! Oh my God…” Mortified, I clap both hands over my mouth. Harry and Marcel burst out laughing. 

Anne says wickedly, “This girl. I like this girl. You, Diana, you can stay.”

I’m about the same colour as my hair right now I think I’m going to pass out oh my God Harry’s still laughing at me.

I look helplessly at Marcel, who is just shaking his head and chuckling.

“Sorry…” I say feebly.

“Ah no, it’s good for him. He needs to be knocked off his high horse.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re so clever. Just ‘cause you can do algorithms and that all that sh-“

I groan.

“LANGUAGE, boys, there are ladies present.”

“I’m not even kidding, if I hear one more thing about algorithms today…” I say, dramatically putting a hand over my eyes. Despite my extreme nerves, I’m quite enjoying myself.

“I feel you, bro,” says Harry without looking at me. “You need to learn to fight him BEFORE he brings the chessboard out.”

My heart bangs painfully. I feel so completely privileged to be a part of this dialogue that I’m struggling to actually hold the conversation. “Uh, I was, uh, thinking more of the enforced Computer Science lessons, actually.”

“Well if you weren’t enjoying yourself, you could’ve just said so,” Marcel says, offended.

“That’s what she said.” 

“No, Marcel, it’s fine- oh my God, did you really just say that, Harry,” I get this little electric shock when I actually say his name. To him. For, like, the first time in my life. I want to keep saying it.

Harry Harry Harry Harry Harry Harry Harry Harry Harry Harry-

He snorts with laughter at his own joke and shakes his head, making his hair bounce. It kinda transfixes me, not gonna lie. “Ahh Markle-“

“-don’t call me Markle-“

“-you’re so smooth. Has my brother actually let you do anything that doesn’t involve Maths?” he asks me, green eyes sparkling with good humour.

“Um, well… Chess-“

He laughs. “You do know Chess is all algorithms as well, right?” Harry and Marcel’s ‘cheeky-little-wotsit’ faces are so blindingly similar that it actually makes me feel a little more at ease. I turn to Marcel with shock.

“Oh. My. God. You actual-“ I can’t find an insult strong enough. Harry’s laughing again and it’s distracting. Watching him laugh is like seeing every sunrise all at once. “I am actually struggling to find words for how evil you are.”

“Sorry, Diana. I didn’t know how to break it to you,” Marcel says mischievously.

The rest of dinner passes quite playfully. I’m kind of stuck between grinning constantly at being included in such familial teasing, and passing out from sheer proximity to the actual flesh-and-blood Harry Styles. I mean, like, in an ideal world, seeing him interact with his mum and brother would bring home to me that he’s just human, an imperfect person, normal life, normal guy, all of that. But this is not an ideal world.

Every little quip and quarrel I witness between him and his brother, or even him and his mum, convinces me even further of his good nature and inherent gentleness. I dunno, there’s just something about the way he interacts with Marcel, like even though his teasing borders on rough sometimes he’s always aware of his little brother’s welfare and encircles him with a kind of fierce benevolent protectiveness. His cheerfulness and effortless charm are almost overwhelming up close, and every inclusive grin or flick of his hair is just serving to further chisel him out of my daydreams and into a living, breathing, tangible PERSON. 

Months of watching from afar haven’t prepared me for a concentrated dose of the real thing.

I mean, he’s so sociable as well. After tea, I offer to help Anne load the dishwasher, which Harry indignantly calls a guilt trip, and suddenly I’m working side by side with both the Styles boys to clear the table. Anne’s thrilled, high-fiving me and telling me gleefully that I can come around any time I please. I like her, I really do: maybe that’s what Mothers are supposed to be like.

Then, pretending to resist as vehemently as I can, Marcel and I return to the chessboard, and Harry sits himself down, all cross-legged and adorable, next to us, eating a packet of crisps.

“Didn’t you just have tea?” I ask him, already just about broaching a familiarity with him which far exceeds my actual confidence; he just carries it. He raises his eyebrows at me. Marcel snorts.

“Hazza has three settings: sleeping, football, and gorging himself.”

“Don’t call me Hazza.”

“Don’t call me Markle! Diana, you can’t move your King there, that’s in check.”

“What? But they’re all in check! The whole frakin’ board is chequered!” Harry chuckles through his crisps. “Shut up, pretty boy; I will burn you.”

Harry gets this gleam in his eye. I’m almost awed by my own daring, but he looks so completely thrilled every time I sass him. How can I resist? It makes my entire body feel electrified.

“It’s like to see you try, Di.”

“Don’t call me Di. No, I mean, like actually, please don’t call me Di.” I say, still in a bright tone of voice, but feeling internally a little bit shook up.

I go red again, cursing myself internally. Why- WHY did I have to protest? Harry can call me Di if he likes – heck, Harry can call me anything he likes. I realise I should have more self respect than that, but I’ve only just conquered talking to him, so...

He recovers sparklingly well, though, which makes me beam: “Fine. C’I call you D?”

Marcel laughs and pushes his glasses up his nose. “Hey D, I actually think you SHOULD play Harry: he’s fairly terrible, so it’ll be good for both of you.”

“Oh, thanks. Thank you for that vote of confidence, Markle. Okay, it’s on, D. C’mon nerds, reset the board.”

Marcel and Harry swap places, and I smirk at my nickname. Harry sees it. “What, D? Not liking your new name?”

I raise my eyebrows. “Oh no, I just luuuurv the D,” I wink cheerily.

Marcel instantly face palms. “Oh good God.” Harry laughs so hard he has to take a moment. Oh my God I actually made him laugh oh my God is he actually laughing-

He actually is. He’s lying on his back like a beetle, waving his feet around. I really want to touch his exposed forehead. He looks weird without all his hair cascading over his head. His laugh really is gorgeous.

“The D!” he gasps, regaining his breath. “Ohh D, that was brilliant. Touché. Okay. Chess. Aahahah.”

“Harry vs the D,” murmurs Marcel, and winks at me. Harry snorts quietly, watching me execute one of the openings Marcel has taught me.

I wink back at him. “Ain’t nobody gonna get the D.”

“Aaaaahahha, shuddup. I’m trying to own you at chess,” Harry shoots at me.

The game’s a tough one. It’s my first real chess match, and Marcel’s kind of helping us both. Much as we protest, his disapproving eyebrow raises and nods direct us all over the place.

“You do realise you’re kind of playing yourself, here, Marcel?” says Harry, faintly annoyed after ignoring a hint of his brothers and losing his Queen to me immediately afterwards. I didn’t even need prompting for that one.

“Mmhmm, and I’m really enjoying making you both dance. Ah, power.” He wiggles his fingers. I laugh.

There’s a bit more silence. This is a close game. I’m biting my lip, totally immersed.

“So, D” says Harry suddenly, in a conversational tone. I try not to let it unnerve me.

“Shuddup, I’m trying to own you at chess.” I murmur, staring at the board. Marcel’s blinking at me but I’m not getting what he’s trying to so discreetly indicate.

“Aaahahaha... You’re alright, you. Where did you come from?” He’s got this questioning, reflective tone, and I don’t think he’s looking for the answer ‘Bradford’.

“Bradford…” I say. Marcel’s staring furiously at one of Harry’s Rooks. There must be something obvious that I’m missing here…

“Ahah very funny. No seriously. Markle, where’d you pick this one up?”

“What? Oh, I only met her today. We already explained that, Harry,” he says impatiently.

I’m clicking my tongue against my teeth.

“Hrm. Eleanor really likes you. She mentioned you today, but none of us knew who you were. Which, I mean, makes sense if you’ve just moved here…” there’s a silence. I don’t really know what to say to that, but I’m currently distracted by furiously examining my chess pieces and their positions and the location of Harry’s King in relation to my Queen…

“You met Louis, yet? Ells said you were coming to guitar group tomorrow-“

“Wha- you go to guitar group?” It comes out in a squeak as my chest constricts in hope. He shakes his beautiful golden-brown curly head.

“M’no. Nialler does though. He’s massively into it. He’ll be thrilled at a new member. Niall’s all about the more the merrier.”

I stare at the board. Then I see it. I look at Marcel for confirmation and he has this really intense look. I smile at him quickly and he huffs in relief that I’ve spotted it. Harry’s still talking. I take his Rook. He absently returns by taking one of my prawns. I mean – pawns.

“…I mean, he’s so into music he’d probably marry any half-decent female guitarist. I mean, if they were single. You’d better watch yourself. That is, if you are single…?”

I grin down at the little chequered board and pick up my Queen. “Yup, that’s me… a single… pringle-” I move my Queen “-who totally just owned your ass at chess.” I feel like I’m going to either explode or pass out from the adrenaline rush. “Check. Freaking. MATE.”

“WAHOO!” Marcel erupts into an almighty cheer and holds up his hands for a high ten. I happily oblige and whoop with him, laughing. Harry stares at the board for a minute, then mutters grumpily:

“That was your first time?! Unbelievable... Got beaten by an amateur.” He looks up at me, running a hand through his ridiculously perfect hair. I laugh at him, still rolling about with Marcel.

“Unbelievable,” he repeats, meeting my eyes. And it’s just a little too softly, too gently spoken, to let me sleep that night.

And I don’t. After finally making it home and whirlwinding through the day with my mum, I lie in bed until the early hours of the morning, repeating and replaying everything in my head and crying with sincere joy into my pillow.

I decide that I really like chess.


	4. A Kingside Fianchetto

I plonk myself into my History seat the next day with the biggest grin on my face.

Which Eleanor, credit to her, notices immediately.

“Hey, Diana! What you so happy about this morning?”

“Had tea at the Styles’ house yesterday.” I lean back and sigh happily. Eleanor pounces.

“No WAY! How come?! With Harry? Did you get to talk to him? Isn’t he lovely??”

“He IS.” I explain to her my affiliation and resulting friendship with Marcel, and describe my blissful evening in the company of my new favourite people. Well: joint favourite.

“Oh my God, you totally like him, don’t you?”

“Oh no, is it that obvious?” I’m giggling and blushing like a six year old, so I guess it is. I must look like a total idiot. But then, I always do, and yet Eleanor’s still talking to me.

“Aahaha, totally. Who doesn’t? Except, like, me, obviously. Oh my God, you’ll have to come hang out with us sometime. You’re totally still coming to guitar group, right? I might get Louis to come as well. I mentioned you yesterday-“

“Yeah, Harry said, actually! Um, what exactly did you say?” 

“Oh, just that I invited you along to tonight. None of them knew who you were, though. I... I told them that you were lovely, and seriously clever.” She glances at me shyly. I grow hot.

“Aw, um hey, Eleanor, thanks. You’re lovely too.” We both smile, somewhat awkwardly. “Um, I don’t know where you get ‘clever’ from though – we’re both going to fail History, y’know,” she laughs, and after beaming at each other we bend our heads to work.

I positively bounce my way to English that day, where something startling happens.

I’m sat on my own, as usual, at the end of the back row. The attractive, well made-up girls next to me have been successfully pretending I don’t exist for over a month now, and up until today I didn’t even know their names. 

Today, however, the teacher has to go out for fifteen minutes, and I discover that the girl immediately to my right is none other than that infamous temptress, Danielle: Harry’s ex-girlfriend. And, even weirder, it’s thanks to Zayn that I find out.

Almost the second the teacher leaves, he swings back on his chair and calls out,

“Ey, Danielle, oi,” he throws a rubber at her. He’s a good shot.

“Jesus- WHAT, Zayn?”

“You seen Perrie today? She ent answering her phone.” He’s chewing gum, staring at his phone, and still wearing his trademark denim jacket. All three of which are against the rules. I’m more interested in his accent, though: it’s distinctly Bradford.

“How would I know? I haven’t spoken to your precious girlfriend since, like, last year. Don’t even know why YOU’re talking to us all of a sudden.” She pointedly turns away from him and says to her friends “ugh, loses track of his girl for one minute and thinks he can pick up where we all left off two years ago.” They laugh together.

Zayn gives up, frowning at his phone.

I kinda really, really want to ask him if he is in fact from Bradford. But my curiosity bows to the weight of about seventeen years of blithely ignoring and being ignored by the world. My newfound confidence, courtesy of Marcel and Harry and Eleanor, isn’t quite enough to overcome that either, and so I spend the rest of the lesson in contemplative silence.

I keep sneaking glances across at Danielle. So... she was the cause of all the trouble. I remember that, according to Eleanor, she’d dated Harry for nearly two years. A faint pang of envy wobbles through me, but I’m mostly just trying to imagine what that could possibly be like. Imagine kissing him... okay maybe don’t imagine that. Breathe.

Eleanor told me that her and Danielle had once been best friends, but had also had a massive fight after Danielle ditched Harry for Liam. After rockily dating Liam on and off for sixth months last year, however, Danielle had pretty much stopped speaking to either side. Of course, Eleanor had explained, the fight between her and Danielle hadn’t been so much a literal fight as a lot of hostile glares and hissing in the corridors.

I think of Danielle’s comment just now- ‘...thinks he can pick up where we all left off two years ago...’ –and a poignant thought strikes me. They’d supposedly all been famous friends before this fiasco at the beginning of last year, and Danielle was making it sound as if she hadn’t particularly lost any of HER girlfriends through the trials and tribulations – but maybe Eleanor had. Maybe Eleanor was actually quite lonely.

After all, she’d been dating Louis for, what was it she’d said, like, four years now? If she had stuck with her boyfriend and his mates... Eleanor may well have forsaken all of her other friends for the sake of that one allegiance.

That’s really rubbish for Eleanor, but quite touching. Dear God, what a gal. I for serious hope Louis knows what he’s got and clings to it.

I spend a perfectly cheerful lunchtime with Marcel in the library. He whoops and high-fives me again when he sees me and we settle down without much awkwardness. I’m already feeling so at home around him, it’s ridiculous. 

He then beats me at chess five clean games in a row, which is also ridiculous.

“Ugh, it’s no wonder Harry’s such a gracious loser, if he’s spent his life being beaten by you at this stupid game,”

Marcel sniggers as I lose a sixth game. “Aw, but they liked you, though.”

“Who, your mum and Harry?”

He nods, beaming at me and blushing slightly. “My mum wouldn’t shut up about you last night. She thinks you’re fantastic. Oh, yeah, and she was worried about how much time you’re spending on your own. She’s asked me to invite you over for every Monday, if you’d like...”

My hands come up to my cheeks. “Aw, aw Marcel that’s lovely! Aw... um, tell her thank you so much. And, um, aw yes I’d love to, thank you! Aw your mum is a babe.”

He chuckles, resetting the chessboard. Then he gets this twinkle in his eye. “And Harry likes you, too...”

I would chastise him at his cheekiness, but something that’s been nagging me slightly blurts out of my mouth instead. I guess I’m just insecure. But then, I already knew that. “Did he? Like, did he really, though? Because he’s SO funny and he was SO kind, but I dunno, like, isn’t he just, like, notoriously nice to everyone? I mean, that doesn’t even mean he didn’t find me really annoying – it might just be like, he was being nice, y’know...” I can’t look up at Marcel. I reach for a pawn and accidently knock over my King.

“Uh, D, you don’t want to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Throw down your King – that means you forfeit the game.” He smiles at me and stands it back up again. “And no, he’s not actually like that with everybody. I mean, yeah he’s really good with people generally, but he's really genuine. Like, he can almost be TOO honest, and some people don’t like him for it. Which is something I’ve never understood, but I guess he does get into fights and stuff... But no: he wouldn’t have come and sat with us after tea if he’d passed you off as regularly boring.”

“Ha. Thanks a lot,” I joke, but secretly, I’m thrilled. Actually not even that secretly: I grin like a moron for the rest of lunchtime, and from the glib comments Marcel keeps making, he knows exactly why.

Then suddenly it’s the end of the afternoon, and I’m faced with the almighty prospect of guitar group.

I kind of really, really, really both do and don’t want to go. 

I mean, I hate being around a lot of people. It makes me feel panicky and nervous, like I’m being herded into a death camp or something. And to be twitching like a rabid dog in front of a group of probably the most popular and beautiful and talented people in school who will then definitely discuss me in front of Harry for some reason just does not appeal to me. Plus I’m not actually THAT good at guitar and I can feel the mortification creeping up onto my face already at the prospect of having to play in front of other people and just generally oh my God-

But on the other hand, I have promised Eleanor...

The thing which finally convinces me is remembering that Eleanor had said she’d drag Louis along, and after my realisation in English class, I’m, like, super duper keen to meet him.

So I drag myself along, my Doc Martens clumping noisily along the seemingly deserted Music corridor. I’m already feeling slightly in over my head; Eleanor had said she’d meet me here but there’s no one else around. It’s really quiet – oh my God what if I’ve just mistaken everything and she doesn’t actually like me and she’s just lured me here as some cruel joke what if there are loads of them just waiting to laugh at me what if guitar group doesn’t even exist and I’m just really naive and no-one actually likes me anyway I mean why would they I’m such a moron oh my God-

A door further down swings open. Noise and laughter and the twanging of strings bursts happily from the room and Eleanor sticks her head out.

“Diana! There you are! Sorry, I should’ve waited out here for you. Come on in!” She beckons to me, friendly as ever.

I take a huge breath in and hurry towards her, head spinning slightly, smiling and ducking through the door she’s holding open for me.

I’m so relieved at not having been duped – which was a ridiculous idea what was I even thinking – that I forget to be nervous about what I’ve just walked into.

There’s whatsisface – Niall – standing on a stool and belting a Bon Jovi song for all he’s worth. There are three guys around him jamming along. Only one of them is actually using an instrument. The other two seem perfectly contented playing air guitar.

Eleanor and I are the only other ones there. Six in total. I’m relieved. No crowds and jeering audiences after all.

On the other hand, it’ll be much harder to be ignored like this. I gulp.

Eleanor comes up next to me. “Oi, Nialler! Niall, shut up- oh my God, Lou, whack Niall for me.” A golden-haired guy grins at her obligingly and quits air-guitaring to get Niall’s attention. So that’s Louis.

I try not to peer at him. I nervously copy Eleanor in picking up a guitar from a cupboard and perching on one of the tables. There are pictures of quavers and Miles Davis and the letters FACE above a stave and the like all over the walls. I get a little nostalgic: I haven’t been in a music classroom for ages.

“Alright, here we go: hellooo everybody! Hi, Diana! I’m Niall,” he hops down from his stool and beams at me. He’s overwhelmingly cheery. I blink a little as he sings at me. “Welcome to the GROOOOOO-OOUP!!”

Eleanor leans over to me. “Yup, he’s always like this. Don’t worry – it’s a really informal group. There are no teachers or anything – we mostly just try to keep up with Niall.”

And he’s kinda heart-warming to be around, actually: Niall’s a source of light and life that make the music room a wonderful place to be. He bounces around for the entire hour, having rapid and enthusiastic conversations with everybody about bands and particular favourite songs, rattling off chord sequences before swinging his guitar onto his lap and demonstrating everything perfectly. He’s fraking amazing at the guitar, as well. At one point he plays the opening of the Ben Howard song ‘Old Pine’ and I swear I nearly pass out, it’s that gorgeous.

I spend most of guitar group quietly watching the dynamics in the room. Louis has the loudest and greatest sense of humour I have ever seen. Eventually I recognise him as Harry’s attractive partner from football practice, and the two other guys, whom I’ve seen around school, are called Luke Hemmings and Calum Hood. Which I only find out because Eleanor tells me.

She and Louis are adorable, too. At one point, Niall tries to get us all to play the opening guitar riff from the Jeff Buckley song ‘Grace’, throwing off Calum’s accusations with “I prefer ‘optimistic’ to simply ‘ambitious’, Hoodster.” I’m kind of blanching but trying my best to follow. But then the second Eleanor throws her hands up in despair, Louis drops his guitar and scoots so that his arms are around her, showing her where to put her fingers and singing the tune into her ear.

I try not to watch them TOO carefully, but he’s so remarkably gentle with her, so patiently and carefully placing her hands in the right positions on the frets and laughing with her when it goes wrong, resting his forehead on her shoulder and beaming at her and just generally being too cute to live, that I can hardly look away.

I totally lose track of what I’m doing as my brain decides to photoshop myself and Harry into similar situations.

“Diana, no, it’s an A minor suspended chord after that,” says Niall helpfully.

I jump twenty-three miles into the air. “What?!”

“Ahaha sorry, didn’t mean to scare ya. Look, it goes-“ he hefts his guitar up onto his knee and plays through it. Bright red, I bend over my instrument and copy him. “Heyy, that was really good!”

I smile slightly, startled. “Thanks...”

He chatters to me for a minute, asking how long I’ve been playing, how I learnt, what kind of music I’m into...

“Uuh, um, well I mostly kind of listen to rock...”

“Ah, now that’s simply just good taste,” he winks at me. He says ‘simply’ quite a lot. In his adorable little Irish accent. Although there’s nothing little about it: this guy has a personality larger than life. “Favourite band?”

“Uuuh, probably, maybe, Dave Matthews Band?” I only have about six of their bazillions of albums, but I’ve never heard a DMB song I didn’t like. “But, um, Nickleback and Led Zepplin are a close joint second,” I offer quickly.

“Ah, good choice. And I’ve heard of Dave Matthews Band-“ he spins around. “Ey, Luke, who is it who likes Dave Matthews Band?” Luke thinks for a moment. I blink. I’m quite surprised that anyone would know them: sure, they’re huge in America, but they’re not so well known here.

“Uh, ‘s Harry, isn’t it? Dunno. ‘S probably Harry. He’s into, like, everything,” Luke says vaguely, focused on working something out with Calum. My heart does a backflip.

Harry. Of course it’s Harry.

I can feel Eleanor’s eyes on me.

Niall’s talking again: “...but I haven’t heard any of their stuff. What genre are they?”

“Um,” I stare at him for a moment before remembering that we’re still talking about DMB. “Oh, right. Uh, kind of, like... Rock? Funk? Blues? Maybe slightly kind of Country? You know, I don’t know what you’d call it...” I’m embarrassed at my own incoherency. “Uh, actually, the reason I learnt guitar was so that I could play this one song called ‘Stay or Leave’ – it’s beautiful, look-“ why the frick-frack knick-knack paddywhack did I just say that now I’m going to have to play it to him oh good lord-

Bright red and nervous, I hardly pause for breath before playing the instrumental intro. It’s quite slow, quite quiet, and I focus on it, breathing – just hearing the music calms me down hugely.

I play it a couple of times through, not daring to look up, trying desperately to forget about the people watching me. I pause just before the first verse comes in. “Uh, yeah, and then there are words,” I laugh nervously.

“Do you know the words?” Says Niall. I glance up at hiMMMMMOH CHRIST THE ENTIRE ROOM IS STARING AT ME WHAT DO I DO WHAT DO I DO THEY’VE ALL BEEN LISTENING I WASN’T MADE FOR THE LIMELIGHT OH MY GOD I JUST MADE A FOOL OF MYSE-

“God, that was beautiful,” says Louis, leaning around his girlfriend to look at me. Eleanor agrees with him vehemently and beams at me with unmistakeable pride. I honestly can’t believe that I’m lucky enough to have made a friend. Let alone a friend who’s actually proud of me for things. It makes me feel all warm and glowing, in a really happy, safe kind of way.

I look back at Niall. “Yeah, yeah okay. Words. Urm, hang on,” I fumble for a minute with the capo. “It needs to be in a different key otherwise it’d go too high for me to sing,” I clear my throat nervously. “Okay,” I can’t believe I’m about to do this. I try not to think about it.

I start playing again, slower this time. Then I start singing.

I’m not being modest when I say I don’t have a great voice. Like, I can stay in tune and stuff, but my voice is a bit weedy and quiet. Nothing special. Still though, it’s a beautiful song, regardless of whether or not I’m doing it justice. It’s also one of the only songs I can decently play on the guitar, and all of these things are probably what lead Niall and company to believe that I’m a much better musician than I actually am.

When I finish, they all burst into rapturous applause. I burn up, unable to tell whether I’m more pleased or embarrassed. 

“Oh my GOD!” Niall shouts. “That was simply AMAZING!” Then with absolutely no warning, he grabs me and hugs me. It’s quick, but leaves me reeling. He doesn’t seem to notice how taken aback I am by this display of friendliness. He’s jumping around and praising me in a loud voice along with Calum and Luke.

I hear Eleanor squeal to Louis, “See! Isn’t she awesome?! I told you she was cool!! Oh my God that was so gorgeous,” and all of a sudden I want to cry.

I just feel exhausted. All these good things are coming at me too fast for me to be anything but overwhelmed. Like, seventeen years of loneliness haven’t really taught me how to accept compliments, let alone how to deal with someone as confident and self-assured as Niall just jumping on me like that – and with such acclamation. For most of my life I’ve been ignored wherever I go. I avoided people wherever possible and I never went to parties, never went out – hell, I didn’t even go to my school Prom. I’m not exaggerating when I say I’ve never had friends before. I’ve never had anybody except my mum ever praise anything I’ve ever done. I mean, I’m a fairly okay student, but was never singled out by teachers for either exultation or condemnation. The most anyone aside from my therapist has ever spoken to me was this one time in year 8 when a bunch of girls cornered me in a bathroom to ask me whether I was anorexic. They had kept me there for over an hour, just berating me, taking me apart and criticising me. I’d had panic attacks for weeks. 

I realise I’m shaking. I know this feeling. I am about to start crying. Which would just draw even more attention to myself. I take quiet, deep breaths. Thankfully nobody seems to be noticing me right now.

In despair I glance at the clock. Louis, of all people, comes to my rescue and copies my action.

“Oh, yeah, Nialler, it’s like half 4. We should go soon. Or at least let me get my toothbrush and a change of clothes.”

“What? Oh, crumbs! Right-“ he spins around dramatically and he looks so comical that I giggle – somewhat hysterically. “Right! Same time next week, lads! And ladies,” he bows to Eleanor and me. What an adorable dork, bless him.

We pack up the guitars and lock the cupboard, all crowding out into the hallway. I’m the last one out of the door and I shut it gratefully behind me. Louis and Eleanor are waiting for me, holding hands, waving goodbye to the other guys. My heart clenches awkwardly.

“Hey, D” says Louis, grinning at me.

“Hey, uh, thanks guys.” I say, too emotionally wrung out to do anything more than smile and follow them down the corridor.

“Did you enjoy that, Diana? It is fun, if a bit hectic.” Eleanor sings the praises of guitar group for a little while, and she and Louis sink into a familiar conversation about homework.

THEN it registers. I give a startled laugh, then abruptly burst into tears.

“Wha- Diana! Diana, honey, what’s wrong?!” Eleanor instantly has her arm around me, nervously repeating my name, which just makes me cry harder.

Absolutely mortified, I try to get myself under control. 

“Oh my God – sorry-“ sniff “-I just, oh man, sorry,” we’ve come to a stop near the doors. I frantically wipe my eyes with the sleeves of my jumper, trying to staunch the flow. It’s okay. I’m okay.

“S’okay...” murmurs Louis. It is. It is. It’s okay.

Eleanor’s just silently patting me. I sob for a quiet minute longer. Then take a huge, shuddering breath in and shakily smile up at them. They stare back with twin looks of sympathy.

“Sorry-“

“No, it’s fine, seriously-“

“You’re okay, quit apologising-“

I wipe my nose on my sleeve and Louis solemnly produces a tissue. Handing it to me, he says “was it something I said?” 

I laugh, honking into the tissue. “Y’know, it actually was.” They both express worry. “No, no, no, just-“ I stare shyly at Louis. “You used the nickname H-“ I hiccup embarrassingly “-Harry and Marcel gave me, yesterday, and it just...” I wave the tissue emotionally around in front of my face, indicating a general welling up of I-CAN’T-COPE-WITH-THIS-ness.

Louis laughs. “Ahahaha, yeah, Harry was telling us earlier. Said he liked you.”

I lose composure a little bit and duck into my hands. “OhmyGodyoupeoplearesoNICE!” I cry in a pained voice.

They both laugh. Eleanor squeezes my shoulder. “We’re here for you, Diana, you should know that.”

Her kindness and selflessness warm my heart, and I smile at her with all the sincerity I can muster. “And I’m here for you, too.”

Louis chuckles. “Thanks, D. And Ells will need it, too. Maybe not right now, but...”

“And what is THAT supposed to mean?”

“Ah Ells, you kidding me? You cry more than any person I have ever known. Y’know, D, the other day at my house she starts sobbing and I’m there, all like, ‘ahh, what’s wrong, what’s wrong?!’ and you know what she says?”

“Ohh yeah I remember this, aahha-”

“She says-“ he puts on a mock sobbing high pitched voice and contorts his face “-‘I just – really – REALLY MISS THE FOETUS BIEBER DAYS!’” We all laugh and Louis grins affectionately at his girlfriend.

After a while we establish that I’m sane again, and Louis offers me a lift with them. I refuse graciously, explaining that I like my walk home: it’s not very long and it gives me time to get my head in order after a long day of school. Plus I can just blast music and not think about the world.

Eleanor gives me one last squeezy hug, saying, “I don’t blame you – I don’t trust his driving either.” She winks at me. “Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow, darling. Hope you get a good night’s rest!”

“Thanks, yeah – I’ll, um – you too! See you tomorrow! Thank you!”

“Take care, D!” Louis takes his girlfriend’s hand and waves goodbye to me, grinning cheerfully as they head to his car. I’m still clutching the tissue he gave me.

I let out an enormous sigh. 

Then I head home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jsyk I am a HUGE Payzer fan in real life - I don't hate her and this fic is not some twisted way of expressing that I might not think Danielle is a lovely person. As it happens, I DO think she is a lovely person, and it stands that my characters do not necessarily align with how I perceive their actual living counterparts :') m'kay thank you xoxox


	5. Hanging pawns

“Y’know, I think I’m becoming popular,” I say to Marcel one lunchtime. There’s no small degree of disgust in my voice, either. It’s close to Christmas now, and I’m getting pretty good at chess.

He smiles at me fondly. “Man, it’s almost like people like you, D!”

“Hashtag first world problems,” I mutter. We exchange a grin.

“No, no, don’t do that, see, I can take your Bishop if you go there.”

“So?! It isn’t like I don’t have one to spare.”

“Well-“

“Oh, no, wait, I see it: you’d take my Knight with your pawn and then I’d have to move my Queen and-“

“And then it’s checkmate in about three moves, yeah.”

“Okay, right, so. Not doing that...” I stare at the board. I still haven’t beaten Marcel. Ever. But it has gotten to the point where one game can take us up to an entire lunchtime. And I’m quite proud of that. “No, but seriously, Markle, what do I do if I get invited to a – a party, or something? I mean, it’s Louis’ birthday soon and they’re already talking about a party... Hrm, maybe I’ll say I’m in and then cancel, say I’ve got to spend Christmas with my mum, or something...”

“Why would you do that?”

“’Cause I hate being around loads of people and I’m a coward.” I finally decide to move my King.

“Aw, no you aren’t. Y’know, you’re the bravest person I know,” he says, and unhesitatingly knocks one of my pawns from the board.

I stare at him. “What? Why?!”

“Well...” he looks up at me with a serious expression. “You used to self-harm, didn’t you?” I splutter and knock over all six of my remaining pieces and three of his. “Don’t deny it, Diana. I haven’t forgotten the bandages you carry around. Plus, y’know, the scars...”

Marcel never calls me Diana anymore. Practically no one does. Harry’s influence is far reaching and even people I’ve never spoken to now seem to refer to me as ‘D’ in casual conversation. The last few months have been a whirlwind of friendship and banter and warmth and love and teasing and Harry being unbearably friendly to me all the time and guitar group and mimicking Niall’s accent with Louis at every possible opportunity and shopping with Eleanor (which was exhausting – much as I love her: NEVER AGAIN) and my mum smiling at long last and tea at the Styles’ house every Monday and my crush getting worse than ever because now I hang out with Harry and Louis and Eleanor and Niall at breaktimes and in between lessons and see Harry every day, several times a day and it still raises my heart-rate by like 52983487 percent because he’s PERFECT. 

Despite my newfound, high-flying, should-I-even-presume-to-call-it-a-friendship-group friendship group though, I come here every lunchtime: chess with Marcel is one of the absolute highlights of my day, and I wouldn’t give it up for the world. It’s quiet, secluded, peaceful, and Marcel has fast become my one of my best friends. Along with maybe Eleanor and – and Harry, dare I ever stake such a claim on him. But I can be having a perfectly fine day, or a day where nothing goes right at all, or one of those days when everything seems a bit surreal and every time someone even looks at me I want to scream and rip my face off, and no matter what, Marcel is here. Steady, dependable, kind-hearted, timid, brilliant little Marcel.

Sometimes we don’t even speak – I mean, he has bad days too. Sometimes we just sit here, in cross-legged silence, chewing our sandwiches and playing chess. It’s blissful.

But all that to say: part of me is shocked that he’s brought up self-harm, but I’m mostly surprised that it’s taken this long. We’ve talked about pretty much everything else under the sun.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I did... used to. But... I’m sorry, how does that make me brave?”

“Because: USED to. When was the last time you, um, y’know...” he waves his hands around in a general gesture.

“Um, a while ago...” I’m staring at him. There’s a certain kind of frenzy in his eyes that I know well from my own. “Marcel?”

“Well, that’s what I mean! To have been through that, and like, to not have given in-“ he swallows and seems to shrink into himself somewhat. He folds his arms gingerly behind his knees, pulling himself in, tucking himself away. Oh no, Marcel. “I don’t know, I know it’s not an excuse for... for anything, but I just think that... suffering like that... and pulling through... it – it makes you brave.”

I understand. I sigh heavily. Poor Marcel. Poor, sweet little Marcel, with his argyle socks and his cardigans and his neat hair and his glasses that are two thirds the size of his face. I have to admit, I had wondered.

“Marcel,” I fiddle with a chess piece for a moment. Then I fix my eyes on him. I choose my words carefully. “Are you okay? And tell me the truth. Because I know what this is, bringing this kind of thing up: it’s a cry for help. And when you say it – self-harm ¬– makes you brave – it really doesn’t. But it doesn’t make you a coward, either. What it does do is hand you a kind of ‘deal or die’ struggle; it’s a problem, not a fault.” He bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut and my throat constricts. I know this look. This is Marcel’s ‘I-really-really-do-not-want-to-start-crying-but-I-think-I’m-about-to’ look. He’s worn it a couple times before. Generally when he’s had a close call with some of the Payne pack.

“Hey, hey, s’okay. You’re okay. Keep breathing.” He inhales judderingly. We’re sitting on the floor, so I just kick the chessboard out of the way and scoot next to him. “Hey, Marcel, hey, c’mere.”

I hug him. I’m getting better at hugs. They used to freak me out, unused to human contact as I am. But now I hug Eleanor all the time. And occasionally Niall or Louis, and a couple times, Harry. Exactly three times Harry, actually. The result of which was me passing most of my shopping trip with Eleanor sniffing various shampoos and trying to work out which one was his. I couldn’t find it, though, and when I admitted my failed quest to Marcel he had laughed for about a billion years and then insisted on getting my phone number so that he could text me the brand name later that day. I totally bought myself a bottle, too. And I don’t even use it. Just smell it occasionally. If occasionally means, like, falling asleep with it open next to my bed.

Marcel cries silently into my shoulder for a few minutes. He’s gripping the edges of his sleeves extremely tightly. I don’t know what to say to him. Don’t know how to help. I don’t even really know what to think, what to feel. I can’t take my eyes away from his arms.

I never know how to feel when someone else mentions self-harm. For me, it was always such a personal, close, weirdly intimate thing, that always seemed to take place somewhere beyond the experiences of regular life. I’ve always thought that that was because, in so many ways, it is literally only a few millimetres away from death. 

But for it to happen to someone else – for someone else to bear the scars, carry that emotional deadweight, to fear the medicine cabinet with a cold kind of dread and to look in the mirror and feel the same blank hatred, the same difficult and slick urges – to think that someone else might find themselves as wretched as I had – now that really makes me feel sick to the core.

And for it to be Marcel – I lurch with horror all of a sudden and grip him tighter. This is the first time self-harm has ever scared me. That was always my problem: it didn’t scare me enough. I wasn’t scared of pain, wasn’t scared of blood, I wasn’t scared of the long sleeves or the sleepless nights or the mess in the bathroom sink. I wasn’t scared of what people would say if they found out about me. I wasn’t scared of going too far. I wasn’t afraid of hospital and I wasn’t afraid of death. I wasn’t even afraid of bearing the scars for the rest of my life.

The only thing that ever scared me about it was the idea that it would affect someone else. I always picked up the razor blade because I thought I deserved nothing less than as much pain as I could possibly inflict upon myself – it was always the deepest kind of self-hatred. But the idea that someone else might be hurt by me hurting myself – that idea makes me curiously fearful. Always has.

Maybe because I can deal with my own hatred, as long as it is confined to myself. The second it touches someone else, though, the whole thing becomes a massive guilt trip. It becomes self-centred and cruel. It never seemed cruel to myself, but that was because, when I was the only party involved, no one I loved was affected. And that was how I had gotten out, in the end: it had no longer become exclusively about me. Someone I loved was suddenly there under the knife with me. My one friend in all the world, paid to be there but effective nonetheless: my therapist.

She’d been more than just professional help. She’d been the person for whom I found I could keep the promise. 

“Marcel,” I say quietly. He’s not crying anymore, but he’s still burying his face in my shoulder. He sniffs and lifts his head. “Hey there, my brother.” It’s a phrase Harry uses all the time, and I’ve kind of adopted it. I’ve kind of adopted a lot of his phrases, actually. Like ‘good grief’, that’s one of his.

“Hey, D.” He half-laughs. “Sorry, I guess I just... yeah.”

“D’you wanna talk?” I say quietly.

He doesn’t say anything, just staring down at his arms. Then, wordlessly, he looks at me. I nod, putting a hand on his shoulder and gripping slightly. Taking a deep breath he rolls up his sleeves and shows me.

I don’t know exactly what I was expecting, but I let out a long breath as he unwraps the bandages on his forearms. It’s pretty bad, to be sure, but it’s not the worst I’ve ever seen. It’s not me.

But in another sense, because it’s not me, it completely breaks my heart.

“Oh, Marcel...” I whisper. He gives an almighty shudder, unfreezes, and starts wrapping his arms back up again. “C’mere... I know what a pain dressing your own battle scars can be.” He smiles, just a little, and lets me help in the only way I know how.

After it’s done we sit and look at each other.

Then do that thing where we both start talking at once.

“Look, Marcel, I know that I’m not an authority on this-“

“Thing is, Diana, I KNOW it’s an awful thing to do, but I still-“

“Sorry, you go-“

“No, you-“

“You-“

There’s a pause. I smile at him encouragingly. If he wants to talk, it’d be my honour to listen.

He takes a deep breath in. “Okay... thing is that, like, I know it’s bad. I know it’s a bad thing to do, and I know I’m in pretty deep, but it’s like, y’know, sometimes I just – sometimes it feels like it’s the only thing I CAN do-“

“Like it’s the only pain you can control, and letting go scares you.”

“Yes!” He bursts out, then buries his face in his hands. “Oh my God you get it.”

I chuckle darkly. “I definitely do. And one thing, Marcel, and this is a horrible question and I’m so sorry that I need to ask it, but it is important – just, are you suicidal? I’m so sorry for just – but, like, self-harm because self-harm is very different to self-harm with the intention of suicide. Like, if you are suicidal, then I’m sorry but we need to tell someone. Sorry. I don’t mean to be all alarmist...”

He swallows and shakes his head. “No, no it’s okay. I get that. And I’m not suicidal, no.” There’s a dreadful pause where we’re both silently adding ‘at least, not right now, anyway’.

He looks at me. “And this may sound totally weird and off the rails, but I’ve always thought that if I were going to kill myself, I’d jump off a really tall building, or a cliff or a tower, or something. Actually maybe not a cliff, I don’t fancy drowning. Haha. Just – I just like the idea of flying being my last ever experience.”

I grin. “I’ve always thought the same, and yeah, we totally need help.” He chuckles once, then, in unison, we sigh.

“What I was saying, Marcel, was that it’s not a fault, m’kay? You need to remember that, too. It’s not a fault of yours; all this-“ I wave at his arms “-it’s a problem. It’s not a personality trait. Don’t get the victim confused with the crime. You’re not doing anything wrong: you’re suffering. There’s no need to feel guilty, because that just makes everything harder and more confusing. And I know my saying this probably won’t make any difference to you, but...” I shrug. “You should remember it anyway.”

There’s an awe I don’t deserve in his eyes. “You’re so wise, d’you know that?” 

“I’m basically quoting my therapist at you right now. Don’t think of me too highly,” I wink.

He puts his head in his hands again. “I think I need a therapist. D’you think I need a therapist?”

“Well that depends. Are regular ol’ friends good enough for you?” I smile kindly at him. “Like, even if you’re having a bad time of it right now, Marcel, you’re the best judge of your own condition – d’you think you need professional help? It might be a good idea anyway...”

“I don’t – I don’t think so, I mean... Argh, I don’t know! I don’t know what I need! I don’t know why I keep doing this. I don’t know why they all hate me so much I don’t even know what I’ve done wrong what did I do wrong Diana why do I do this to myself it hurts why do I even do it what is wrong with me-“ 

“Hey, hey Marcel, shh, shhhhh, you’re okay. You’re safe here, you’re okay. Breathe. Just breathe.”

I pull him into my arms again, rocking him gently until his sobs abate. I wonder if he’s ever cried about this to anybody. I’ve never shed a single tear over myself and my scars. When it comes to crying at my therapist, however – whole different story. It’s much harder looking at it through the eyes of someone you love.

“’M so-“ he hiccups “-sorry – I just...”

“Shush now, s’okay. I get it. I SO get it.” 

The bell goes. We ignore it.

We sit in silence for a few more minutes, then he sits up, taking a deep, calming breath. I grin wickedly at him. “I have been such a bad influence on you, Marcel. At the beginning of term you wouldn’t even miss Maths for a broken knee-“

“Oh, shut up. It was just bruised.” He smiles, though. My heart is still thumping with worry. He looks so pale and defeated.

But then, that’s what it’s like. I would always look worse – feel worse – coming out of my therapy sessions; every sin and tragedy would be written anew across my face, my own internal massacre fresh in my expressions and my memories. But actually, when the truth comes out for real, it never does look clean. And it leaves you empty no matter whether what comes out is beautiful or vitriolic. Truth is truth. Objective and brutal.

“Um, Marcel?” 

“Mm?”

“Can I tell you how I got through?” I bite my lip. He looks at me.

“Uh, sure.”

“Okay, well... maybe you need someone to make the promise to.” I shuffle myself around so that I’m facing him.

“The what?”

“Like, for me, it was my therapist. But then, it would be, because she was the only one who knew. But – wait, who else knows?” I nod towards his arms to make it clear what I’m talking about.

“Wha- about this?! Nobody.”

“Okay. Well, the promise is what my therapist always used to call it, and she was referring to this one vow I made to her. And kept making to her. I promised not to – to cut. Ever again.” I falter over the word slightly. Always have. I never use the words to myself – in my head it’s this great, nameless, looming THING.

“I know, I know it sounds impossible, and I bloody well failed to keep that promise – like, the first gazillion times I made it – but honestly it was a victory just committing to making it, never mind keeping it. And, eventually, actually, it worked. See, the thing she’d always talk about was how I didn’t care enough about myself enough to make the promise to ME – she always said that that’s the mistake people make when they swear on their own lives, ‘cause, like, we never think our own lives are as precious as the lives of the people we love. And I frakin’ love my therapist. I know, I know, that’s really sad. But it’s true.

“And so I kept making this promise to her, that, for HER sake, I wouldn’t... y’know, and because it was for HER, and because I genuinely loved her, and I didn’t want to disappoint her, and I kinda idolised her and was in awe of her and adored her and everything else, eventually, and it took a long time, mind, it stuck. I’m talking years, here – absolutely years of pain and torment. I mean, when I was having difficulty finding something else to do I would call her up and scream at her and, like, shout profanities down the phone and she’d just chuckle and say ‘you love me really’. Because I’d always be angry at her for making me make that promise, but the fact that I loved her meant that I’d do my absolute damnedest to keep it. No matter how hard.”

Marcel nods slowly, looking dazed. “Wow... And you did? You kept it?”

“Yup. When you asked me how long it’s been... well... how long since March 2nd, two years ago?”

He raises his eyebrows. “You know the exact date? Of the last time you...”

“Yeah. And I used to know the exact number of days between each failure as well. I’d ring her up and tell her I’d broken my promise, and she wouldn’t even be disappointed in me. That was the worst part. I remember the pause on the other end of the phone after I told her, on March 2nd. I honestly don’t think I’ll ever forget that phone call. It had been forty seven days, and all I could think when I told her was that, even though she never said ANYTHING that wasn’t explicitly encouraging, she must have been so disappointed in me. ‘Cause I’d been doing so well, y’know. And I realised that every time I screwed up, it would feel even worse to tell her. And so I resolved there and then to never ever have to say those words to her ever again. To never let her down.”

“And you kept that promise...”

I beam at him, but he’s not looking. “The best day of my life was saying goodbye to my therapist – on the day that we moved. I thought it would’ve hurt more than it did, but actually, there was this one moment when she asked me how many days it had been since I last, uh, cut, and I stood there for the longest – ah, the LONGEST time, and then I turned to her and said ‘do you know, I cannot remember.’ And we just danced and danced. ‘Cause I was managing to keep the promise. And, like, I’m not even kidding, it was the best feeling in the world, watching her face. Like, there is no better feeling than having the power to make someone you really love really happy, and then getting to see it happen. It just – ah, it’s so cheesy, but it kinda changed my life. It just, I dunno, like, if anything has ever made me strong, that moment did.” I watch Marcel for a moment. “That’s what you should do, Marcel. Make that promise to someone.”

He nods. “But, like... who?”

“Well, who do you love most in all the world? Big question, I know. And I’m not expecting you to say me... But we both know it’s me,” I wink at him and he laughs.

“Someone for whom I could keep a promise...” he murmurs.

“You could make it to Leeroy?” I suggest. I don’t really know much about Leeroy. Marcel talks about how great he is and how much he wants me to meet him, but it’s never been something that comes up an awful lot in conversation and I don’t like to pry. 

Marcel shakes his head.

“No, I mean, it’s a good idea, but no. Leeroy’s... sweet. He’s really lovely to me and I do really like him, but we aren’t serious. Like, I wouldn’t bring something like this to him: he’s got his own baggage to deal with...”

“Fair enough.” I sit back and let him think for a few minutes. I can tell that Marcel’s thinking hard. He gets this cute little frown line between his eyes. He subconsciously pushes his glasses up his nose. There’s a lot of tension in his shoulders. 

A moment later he shuts his eyes and lets out a hefty breath.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. I have an answer...”

“But?” I can hear in his tone that there’s a but here.

“But...” he says slowly, “I have absolutely no idea how I am going to say it to him.” He gazes past me, looking really quite sad.

“Ah. It’s Harry, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” In spite of everything, I smile. “What?”

“I just – ugh, I love you two. One of the things which made me like him in the first place was watching him interact with you. I mean, there’s just this tangible love between the two of you. And you should hear him talk about you when you’re not there, Marcel, he’s absolutely fanatical about you. Seriously, he thinks you’re just about the most gosh darned intelligent person that ever lived. He once spent an entire free period talking about this thing you did on his laptop-“

“What, the app I wrote for him?” Marcel glows.

“Yeah! Aw, man, your brother-“ I shake my head in sheer joy “-I absolutely love him, Marcel. And not least because I absolutely love you, and that kinda lets me know that Harry can appreciate a good thing when it crosses his path. And let me tell you: how I feel about the two of you is absolutely nothing on how much Harry adores you.”

I beam at him and he beams back. That’s Harry for you: brings warmth and strength and pride to people even in his absence. 

What a guy.

“Uuugh I wish you two would get married. That would be perfect,” mutters Marcel. He takes his glasses off and cleans them on his jumper. “Get Diana to marry Harry. I think that’ll be my new life goal.” He puts his glasses back on and smiles cheerfully at me.

I chuckle. “Well, I can’t say I’m opposed to that.” I hold up my hands for a high ten. “New life goal!”

He slaps my hands. “Get Diana to marry Harry!”

“Aahaha we should get T-shirts.”

“Aaahahah, yeah.”

We sit in silence for a few moments more.

“D...”

“Yusss,”

“I kinda do... like, really want to do that. Make that promise, I mean. I – I kind of want Harry to know. But... ugh, but how do I tell him? I mean, he practically flips if I even mention stubbing my toe, which is why I do my best not to mention the bullying-“

“I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: you really should tell him, Marcel. About the bullying, I mean. You know he’d do everything in his power to protect you if he knew-“

“Yeah, but he’d go completely berserk first – you know he would. He’d be so panicked and wracked with guilt that he’d do something really stupid, like murder Liam. And then he’d regret everything for the rest of his life and he’d go mad with grief and wind up running naked through the Yorkshire Dales in his old age or something...” Marcel trails off.

“Ahaha, nicely put.” He has a point though.

“Diana,”

“Marcel,”

He takes a deep breath. “Could you tell him for me?”

“Ahahaa – no. No way. This is your promise to keep and therefore entirely your promise to make-“

“No, no, no, I just mean, like, talk to him first – about, like, the fact that I, um, self harm – I mean, like-“

“No, Marcel I really can’t-“

“Diana, please! I’m not even sure he really knows what self-harm IS!” I eye him for a moment. He’s half-risen to his knees, pleading with me. “I really don’t think I’m in a place right now where I could bear to sit down next to him and have a happy long chat about the fact that, ooh yes, I’ve been hurting myself, but no need to worry, or at least, as much as you are bound to worry, because actually there’s a very vast and complex mentality behind it so now let’s have a nice psycho-analytical breakdown of depression and all its damaging modes of expression.” He looks at me pointedly.

“Ooh, you got any ice? I just got scolded. Harhar. No, okay, that’s fair enough.”

“I’m not asking you to go in and recount everything. I just – I mean, oh God, Diana, I’d feel so much less afraid of hurting him if he understood a little bit. This isn’t going to be easy for either of us – for me to say or for him to hear. I’m just asking you to soften the ground a little bit. Mediate. Please.”

I can hear the conviction in his voice – he’s definitely going through with this. He’s going to talk to Harry. I feel so violently proud of him I almost choke. “Seriously, Marcel, it’d be an honour to.”

“Really?!”

“Yes. I mean, this is a ridiculously huge step you’ve just committed yourself to, and if there is ANYTHING I can do to help you, God knows I will. So yes, of course. Um, what exactly do you or do you not want me to say to him? And also when? And how and where and who and why are we here?!”

“Is there a point to all this!?”

“Is anybody out there?!”

“It’s me, God! Marcel!” We snigger at each other. In-jokes, I’ve discovered, are the best thing ever.

We spend the remainder of the day anxiously going through every detail of what Marcel and I are going to say to Harry, independent of each other. I can tell that he’s extremely nervous, but his unerring pragmatism keeps him focused. I can’t say I’m thrilled about this plan, but hey-ho, as Marcel puts it at one point:

“I know you’re not going to back out of this, because I’m essentially just asking you to be alone with Harry for an entire afternoon.”

“That, Mister Styles, is nothing short of blackmail.”

“That’s the idea!” I have to snort at how chirpily he says it, too.

It’s a Thursday, so Harry has football practice. Marcel generally goes out to see Leeroy while this happens, and admits to me that his mum thinks he stays at school and does homework.

I gasp. “You literal rebel! Oh my God, I’m seeing a new side of you today, Marcel!”

He gives me a look. “But, yeah, how d’you feel about coming with me? You could meet Leeroy! And then afterwards we come back here and mum picks us all up, and then you come back to our house and then I lock you both in his room and you do the deed.”

“Well... I mean, as long as you give us a condom,” I say, in complete disbelief at the grace with which that innuendo has just flown out of his mouth and straight over his head. He starts, then peals with laughter, clapping his hands.

At the end of school, as we walk out together and he’s telling me where we’re going to meet his boyfriend, he brightens and says “oh, and this way, D, you can tell Harry all about Leeroy, too!”

“Nmnoo, I don’t think so.”

“What? Why not?!”

“I am not outing you, Marcel!”

“Oh, fair point. Um... oh good grief, I’m going to have to tell him about that too...” and he looks so stressed I put my hand out and just touch his arm gently.

“Hey, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. It doesn’t have to be the same conversation.”

“You’re right. Might save that for another day.” He sighs. Then looks at me. “Ready to go?”

“Ready when you are,” I beam at him, grateful and stunned and amazed to have a best friend like this.

He beams as well, grateful right back at me.


	6. Epaulette Mate

I take an enormous breath in. 

I rock back on my heels a little and read some of the concert tickets on Harry’s door. There are some decent bands here – some I know, some I don’t; U2, White Eskimo, Frightened Rabbit, 5 Seconds Of Summer, Arctic Monkeys, Haim... Hey look he went to Glastonbury! I’m momentarily impressed. 

Then dread sinks back in.

Okay, so I’m stalling desperately. Sue me.

Then all at once I knock.

“Yup?” Holy crow I am so not prepared to do this oh my days what am I even doing here I can’t do this what do I even say good grief Marcel forgive me there is no way in hell I can- “Helloo?”

“Uh, hi! Sorry – can I... can I come in?” I stammer out, hand on the doorknob.

I jump back a million miles as he opens it.

“Hi, D.” He smiles and his face does the thing where it looks all radiant and transformed and ohhhh gulp. “You okay?”

“Uh, hahaha, no.” I follow him into the room. He’s eating a packet of, um, I think it’s cereal. He offers me some and I shake my head. I will be sick if I eat anything. That’s just fact.

He’s frowning. “Oh... what’s happened?” He sits back on his bed. There are homework books strewn all over it. 

“Uh, nothing. I mean, in a way, lots of things. I mean- it’s about Marcel.” 

He looks like I’ve hit him in the face with an anvil. “Diana, is he okay? Where is he? When he didn’t get a lift like he normally does I just thought-“ he’s scrambling to his feet. 

“No, no, no, sit back down. He’s fine. I mean, he’s not fine, but he’s in no, like, IMMEDIATE danger. Sort of. Uuugh, I had this all planned out in my head.” I’m pacing up and down. I squeeze my temples with my fingers, trying to breathe right. “Seriously, Harry, sit down. You’re making me nervous.” I STILL get a kick out of saying his name.

He grunts and perches on the edge of his bed, watching me with wary eyes.

“Marcel’s in his room, just so you know. We came back from town by bus. We were running later than we thought we would be. He’s asleep actually – I thought I’d leave him there.”

Harry nods once. Then, after a moment, says “is this about Marcel being gay?”

This completely derails me. “What?!”

“He IS gay, isn’t he?”

“Wha- yes, but that’s not...” I stare at him helplessly.

“Yeah,” Harry stretches back and sighs. “Apparently he’s dating Payne’s cousin?” He sniffs. “I AM fine with that, you know. Like, it makes no difference to me.”

“What? Oh, yeah, for sure...” I stare at him for a long moment. Then decide: fine. If we’re going to talk about this, then we’re going to talk about this. “How did you know he’s dating Leeroy?”

“Wh- oh, right. Didn’t know his name. Uh, girl called Lou- Lou Teasdale? Purple hair? Yeah, no, I wouldn’t expect you to know her – she goes to a different school. But she told me. I have eyes and ears all over the place,” he flashes a grin at me. I nearly faint. “Wait, have you met him?”

I nod. I’m having difficulty not being transfixed by his lips when he talks. “Uh, yeah. Today, in fact. That’s why we were in town.”

Harry raises his eyebrows. He has this dark green bandana wrapped around his hair and it’s almost unbearably Stylish. Pun intended. “What did you think? He a decent guy? Because that I WOULD have a problem with: any kid who messes with Marcel’s heart is gonna have hell to pay – I don’t care what gender they are.”

I smile to myself. Something about Harry’s fierce protectiveness calms me. It’s funny that he knew. And it makes this whole task feel a bit easier. Like, Harry’s not going to have any reaction that isn’t first and foremost looking out for his brother’s well-being, which gives me all the courage I need, really.

Feeling comforted, I pluck up the nerve to ask if I can sit down.

“Uh, be my guest! Here – sorry-“ he tosses several sheets and pages onto the floor. “S’not like I understand any of this stuff anyway, ugh.”

I sit cross legged on the end of his bed. I try to calm my pulse. I fail miserably. “Thanks. Yeah, um, so, Leeroy’s nice and all...”

“But?”

“But, like, a bit annoying. I mean, I’m not sure how much I like him-“ emphasis on the ‘I’ “-but, uh, he’s perfectly nice to Marcel. Quite sweet, in fact.”

“Okay... Annoying in what way?”

“Oh, well, like, he’s quite camp. Actually that’s not even it. Some people are completely camp and they’re fine. I dunno, I just found him a bit irritating. I think we’re just not very similar people. He’s quite loud and... just, that full-tilt diva kind of annoying. And I think the fact that he’s almost ostentatiously gay doesn’t help his case. But, y’know... Marcel likes him. So I guess that’s all that matters.”

“As long as he’s happy.” Harry nods, staring past me. “That is all that matters.”

I look at him for a long moment. Here goes. “What else do you know about him? Marcel, I mean.”

“Hm? What do you mean?”

“As in, like, clearly you never told him that you knew he was gay – is there anything else that he doesn’t know you know?”

We look at each other for a long moment. It’s actually quite easy for me to hold his gaze without getting lost in it. Maybe because this is about Marcel, not me. Harry and I have one common interest at heart, and that, right now, is all that matters. 

It feels good to be back in his room again. In a weird way, Marcel and I are here all the time in our heads and hearts and conversations, and it feels like home.

“Okay. I’m going to ask you a question, Harry, but before you answer it, I need you to clear your head of any and all pre-conceived notions, m’kay?”

“Uh, okay...?”

“Okay. Sorry, by the way-“

“What for?” I look once more at his rounded, youthful face. Sure, he’s nearly an adult, but he’s quite young. We all are. Too young for all this. It’s ridiculous.

“Because I don’t think you honestly have any idea what I’m about to say, do you?”

“No, I really don’t. D, what’s going on?”

I just need to say it. ‘Cause if I don’t say it, then I won’t say it. Simples.

“Harry, what do you know about self-harm?” I breathe out shakily and stare at his bedspread. It’s navy blue and indistinctly patterned.

“What?! Oh my God-“

“No, no, no, shush. Don’t worry. Just – please, I NEED you-“ I wave my hands about frantically and squeeze my eyes shut “-to just answer the question. Please.” I have a massive headache coming on. Ughk.

“Um, okay...” I open my eyes. There’s massive alarm in his expression. “Well, not... like, not much, really. I mean, isn’t it something... people... do to, like, help them cope with, uh, things?!” He has big round eyes even on normal days, but right now he’s practically Bambi. “Like, I dunno, I’ve always associated it with, like, emos, but I guess it’s more like a serious, um, depression thing. Like suicide and stuff. Diana, look at me – is Marcel okay?”

Slowly, I shake my head. “No. No, he isn’t. But he’s asked me to do this, so for his sake, I’m gonna just talk to you for a bit – if, I mean, if that’s okay? Marcel wanted me to, like, to explain a little bit of what self-harm actually is before he talks to you himself, so... Okay. Right. So:”

And I start talking. I talk for ages, sat there nervously fiddling with my sleeves on the end of Harry’s bed. As I talk there’s a slow, glacial shift and we end up close together, face to face, leaning in, all intense and involved as I do my absolute best to do justice to the awful, terrible, dark world of self-harm.

I end up mostly giving detailed retellings of things I’ve gone through and felt, but, as I explain to Harry, there really is no other way to do it. I try to talk about everything: from the actual physical pain and its ramifications, to the loneliness that comes with feeling like there’s no one in the world who will listen when you call for help and wondering if you really want them to hear you anyway. I talk about the weird, disjointed feeling you get every time one of your scars twinges or whenever you bleed onto the inside of your sleeves and wearing invisible bandages under your clothes and how nothing quite seems like it should, and how it’s strange to try to look into the faces of the people around you and know that they can’t feel the enormous amounts of physical pain you’re in right now and how they’d only know if they asked, and no one ever does. I talk about how it makes you feel different – an outsider – ostracised and ignored. I talk about how it becomes a mirror of what you’re feeling, and how the more you bury yourself in secrecy and pretending, the harder it gets to unwrap your emotions and tell the truth. I talk about how awful it feels to get up each morning and face yourself, let alone the rest of the world, and I try to outline exactly what it takes to help someone who is in that place. I explain the promise and everything it means. I try to explain just how huge an achievement it is to make that promise, without implicating myself in any of it. It doesn’t work, though.

The more I talk, the more I feel exposed and vulnerable. It’s painful – like I’m pulling back open all my old wounds. But at the same time it’s ultimately releasing, because the more I talk, the more Harry listens.

There’s almost nobody I would feel comfortable having this conversation with. Heck, there are very few people I’m comfortable having ANY conversation with: but if I had to pick anybody, Harry would make the top three.

To be sure, he’s not the most mature, or sensitive, or wise person in the whole wide world, but the thing about Harry is his eagerness to listen and his willingness to learn. That’s why I agreed to this insane discussion in the first place: Harry knows he doesn’t know everything, and that makes him a remarkably attentive listener. God, I love him.

This particular virtue of his makes itself dazzlingly apparent as, eventually, Harry’s internal processing catches up with what I’m saying to him and he becomes fully engaged. From that point on, he almost doesn’t stop asking questions.

I’m part way through describing exactly what kind of little everyday things have always helped me – in the hope that it might assure him that he’s already exactly what Marcel needs, when he interrupts me.

“Hang on, hang on, did you ever tell your mum? That you, y’know, self-harmed?”

I bite my lip. He’s adopted my tendency to trip over the phrasing.

And he’s also just swept me completely off my feet by putting all of these demons and ghosts into a box and calling it the past. “No, I didn’t. I mean, haven’t. Harry, even though I haven’t actually done it in a while, you know, I still think of it in the present tense. I think it’s because – something like this – like self-harm – it never really leaves you. That’s why it’s still a miracle, every single day, when I successfully go from dusk ‘til dawn without succumbing. That massive cliché totally applies to me: there literally isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t think about it-“

“Think about what, exactly?”

“Everything. I’m pretty much either in that mindset or thinking about it.”

“Either cutting, or thinking about cutting, or thinking about thinking about cutting?”

“Exactly. Like, once self-harm has touched your life, it never really goes away. I mean, you could say it leaves its mark, and it does – literally – but it’s not as simple as that. It’s more like the first time you deliberately hurt yourself – and it’s not just cutting, mind – it can be all sorts of things – you alter yourself permanently. It’s like creating a shadow. It never leaves you. It wanes, sometimes, when the light is strong, but it’s always there. I still have days when literally the only thing stopping me picking up a razor blade is because I’m just standing in the middle of my house telling myself that the guilt I’d feel about breaking my promise would be more long lasting than the pain of not causing myself pain. If that, erm, makes any sense at all...”

“It’s... starting to... In a sick kind of way. And not a good sick. But what do you mean when you say it’s not just cutting?”

“Oh, like, it can be almost anything. Just so long as it hurts. Or, actually, not even that – some people OD-“

“What’s that?“

“Over dose. There’s also this thing that falls under the category of self-harm, where you just go hang out somewhere really dangerous, like, kind of waiting to get attacked or, or raped or something.”

“God, that’s horrible...”

“Yeah. I think it’s called ‘night-walking’...” he’s staring at something far away. Nervously, I keep talking. “But I never do anything to deliberately endanger my life. For me, it always had to be something which was instantly and immediately painful, but not fatal. Like, if my arms were pretty... like, if I didn’t think it was safe to keep cutting, I used to burn myself-“

“WHAT?!”

I laugh nervously. He looks absolutely horrified. So far he’s been surprisingly calm. “I never set myself on fire, or anything! I used to just make cups of tea and then I’d sit and hold the mug for as long as I possibly could. It’s painful as hell.”

I’m not even slightly prepared for what he does next. He has this almost fearful look of deep grief in his eyes, and he reaches forwards and takes my hands in his own, lacing our fingers together. I hardly dare to breathe. It’s a beautiful gesture.

“D, I’m so sorry,” he looks down, rubbing the backs of my hands gently with his thumbs.

I start jabbering nervously. “This is why I apologised, Harry. Because now you’re in it too.” He looks up at me. He’s startlingly close to my face. “I like to think that some people get out of this world without ever having to wrap their heads around any of this stuff. But that was not to be, I guess. And now that it’s touched your life, it’ll probably never go away. And for that, I am truly, truly sorry.”

He shakes his head at me, a small, sad smile on his face. “If it’s happening to the people I love... I’d rather know.” He squeezes my hands. I don’t know what to do – how to continue – I’m just staring at him – what am I supposed to be doing – I can feel his hands around mine. It’s weird. Like there’s nothing between our skin, and the essence and motion that keeps us alive is just passing uncontained from one of us to the other, through both skin and gaze – and neither of us are looking away. 

He clears his throat and looks down again, but doesn’t drop my hands. “You mentioned you had a therapist? What happened to her?”

“Oh, yes-“ a little breathlessly, I start singing her praises. Which I could’ve done for a really long time, but for Harry’s interruptions.

“She sounds fantastic. Are you still in contact with her?”

“Yup. I mean, we text a lot, and sometimes I call her, but we haven’t actually had formal sessions for ages. We are genuinely very good friends. Mmm, in fact she’s the only friend I ever had before moving here.”

“See, now THAT I don’t understand.”

“What?” 

“Well you mentioned before that you were lonely, and had, like, no friends, but I don’t see HOW! You’re like, so funny, D, you’re brilliant. You should have loads of friends.”

I stare at him. “That’s the craziest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“What – why?”

“Because it goes against the basic message I’ve been getting for seventeen years, which is that I’m useless-“

“I don’t think you’re useless.” He smiles and my heart stutters again. He’s still holding my hands. “Your therapist, what was her name?”

“Uh, Ali. Short for Alison. Loads of people at school used to call her the ‘Sexy Secretary’.” I chuckle. “To be fair, she IS extremely hot. Like, anyone who isn’t blind can see that.”

Harry smiles.

Then completely dismantles me.

Slowly, he lifts one of my hands to his lips and kisses my fingers. Then he lets go of my other hand and carefully wraps his hand around my wrist. There are still scars there. You can still see them if you’re looking. A Doctor once told me that some of them were too deep to ever go away.

Harry gently lifts my forearm and kisses the inside of my wrist, so tenderly I’m not sure I’m breathing.

He moves away and takes my hand in both of his own. We’re close enough together that he can pull my hand close to his heart, clutching me to himself and looking at me like I’m the most precious thing that’s ever existed. “It seems we have a lot to be grateful to Alison for.”

I nod, completely winded. My brain is not working. I stare at my hand in his like it’s an alien object that doesn’t belong to me. But at the same time I can feel the warmth and I want to bury myself in it.

“Uh, of course, she was hired by the school, so-“ I’m completely babbling. Shut up, Diana oh my God what are you even saying right now “-like, I wasn’t supposed to call her Ali – but, like, she said she always hated being called Ms Malik, so-“

“Wait, what? No way!!” Shouts Harry, sitting up and looking overjoyed. “No way, no WAY! I knew it! Ahh, that is too good to be TRUE!”

“What?! Harry! What?”

“Alison! Ali Malik? As in, Zayn’s sister?!”

I stare at him blankly. All I can think of is that, despite practically throwing himself off the bed in excitement, he still hasn’t let go of my hand. 

“D, you do know Zayn’s last name, right? Zayn, in our year? Black hair, I-would-not-take-off-this-denim-jacket-if-my-life-depended-on-it Zayn? Helloo? D?!”

“What? No, no I didn’t...”

Harry continues with the biggest grin on his face. “Zayn MALIK!! He moved down here five years ago when his parents split up, but his oldest sister stayed with their Dad in Bradford – and d’you know why?”

“How would I know why?” I smile slowly. His excitement is contagious. And rather lovely.

“Okay, true. She stayed because she said she had people she was helping who needed her.”

“Oh my God, five years ago... She even told me: her family were moving away, but she was staying – for me – she even said to me, I remember-“ with slow wonder I repeat her words from a long time ago: “’my parents have already split up, and there’s nothing I can do about that, but as long as you need me I’ll be sticking around to do some good where I actually can.’” I look up at Harry. “And she’s Zayn’s sister! Oh my God!”

We laugh in sheer amazement. 

“Man, that’s bizarre.”

“It’s a small world after all...”

“Yeah! Yeah...”

“Hey, how do you know all this? I thought you didn’t speak to Zayn?”

Harry gave a heavy sigh. Then, much to my absolute delight, reaches around and takes my other hand again. “Sorry – you don’t mind-?”

“Uh, no! No, I don’t mind if you don’t mind,” I say quickly. I bite my lip. He meets my eye briefly, but there’s a new sadness in them which distracts us both.

“Thanks, D. Yeah... I guess I don’t talk to Zayn anymore. But... like, if I’m totally honest... I miss him. I miss both of them. Him AND Liam. That tool.” There’s a miserable humour in his voice.

“Liam’s long forgiven, huh?” I guess quietly.

“Yeah. I mean, I dated Danielle – you know about Danielle, right? M’kay, good. Yeah, I dated her for way longer than I would’ve, but I just liked having a girlfriend, y’know,” he shrugs.

“Actually, I DON’T know.” He looks at me. “What? I’ve never had a boyfriend.”

“Seriously!?”

“Yeah – loner, remember?”

“Huh... well, like, sure, Liam did a stupid thing while he was stupid drunk at a stupid party, but he’s not a stupid guy. Really clever, actually. I probably miss him most because he’d just, like, do my homework for me all the time.” Harry laughs. “And yeah, I really miss Zayn. He’s a good guy. One of the best guys ever, actually. Him and Niall are, like, the two kindest people I’ve ever met. And I guess Zayn just proved that by sticking with Liam. Pretty much everyone else sided against him. It’s no wonder he hangs around with the people he’s with today – no one else would even talk to him back last year.”

“Oh yeah, you guys had a fight, didn’t you?”

Harry nods, then bows his head. “I’m not proud of it. It was awful. I get like that, D, I get kind of... I, like, Hulk out the second I feel like someone I love is being threatened. I just get really angry and, like, really, really mean. It’s horrible.”

There’s a long pause. I’m shaking really quite hard, and I’m almost worried he’ll notice, but I let go of one of his hands anyway and move so that I can put my arm through his, kind of side hugging him. He moves as well and retakes my hand, linking himself with me.

“S’okay, y’know. That kind of split isn’t easy on anyone. I’d bet my bell-bottoms that they’ve been feeling it as much as you.” I can’t believe I’m reaffirming Harry Styles.

I bump my head onto his shoulder, exhilarated and comforted and warm and happy and thrilled and jubilant and quite probably in full-blown shock.

He sighs warmly and rests his head on mine. “Thanks, D. For everything.”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to have done, but, uh, you’re welcome.” He smirks.

We sit like that in silence for a while. 

I can see our reflection in the mirror opposite his bed. Harry’s looking down, I think at our hands, which sends a thrill right through me. I can feel his pulse through our arms. There’s such warmth and love there in what I’m seeing that I almost cry. I feel healed by it. Like it’s cathartic to be this close to somebody else. Particularly someone this kind-hearted and just deeply GOOD. I feel safe. Like I am literally in good hands. Also we look like a couple. 

But I’m not letting myself run away with that hope.

“Do you actually OWN bell-bottoms?” He asks all of a sudden, lifting his head.

“You know what, I totally do.” He laughs once, loudly.

“Okay, so... Marcel.”

I shuffle upright a little so that I can look at him. “Yes. Marcel.”

“He self-harms?” I nod. “Okay, and I think I know something of what that means now, so thank you for that. What is it exactly that he has left to tell me?”

“Well, you know I was describing this promise I made to Ali?”

“Mhmm,”

“Well I told Marcel that if he wanted an incentive to stop – which he did, by the way, so that’s a good sign – then he’d have to make that promise to someone who meant so much to him that breaking that promise would be a harder thing to do than not cutting. And so I asked him who he loves most in all the world, and d’you know who he said?”

I elbow him playfully. He ducks his head, delighted, beaming, moved. He’s always brimming with different emotions, is Harry – I’ve honestly never met anyone with so much flair in their heart.

“Ahh, I don’t know what I ever did to deserve a brother like Marcel,” he shakes his head, incredulous.

“I think you were the brother you wanted to have. That’s all.”

He fixes me with a look. “What do you mean?”

“Uh, just, like... Well, Marcel would say the same thing about you, and I think you both fulfil something of what the other hopes he can be. Without each other, neither of you would be half the people you are today.”

“God, D, you are amazing-“ and without further warning, Harry leans in and kisses me.

And he just holds it, too. I can feel his mouth through my lips, but it’s like touching an explosion and the actual sensation is hazy through the sheer amount of nervous energy shooting through me. I’ve always read about kisses including some kind of ‘warm, tingly feeling’, but that doesn’t quite cover it. Imagine, if you will, being in that close a proximity to someone else’s face. Like, that’s a weird degree of intimacy for starters.

But then suddenly his lips come apart and he’s BREATHING on me and it’s like I’m experiencing a huge server error like woah 404 nothing is quite working right and, like, the warmth and moisture of your own breath never really touches you, so the second you feel that same combination on your own skin, it’s like your brain knows exactly what that means and goes into overdrive – because it means that another person – another human being – is right there, they’re so close to you they could kill you without moving an inch but they haven’t. Instead they’re just BREATHING on you and touching you so gently and so tenderly and softly that it DOES IT DOES BREAK ME OKAY OKAY OKAY NOT OKAY-

I fragment and float apart. I’m unable to access any of the usual bodily functions which I mastered in, like, my first ten days outside the womb.

Harry smiles – and oh good God I can feel it his smile is an actual very physical thing which I can touch and taste and feel as well as see and dream about and oh God oh God – before moving away to look at me.

I suddenly start and suck in a huge amount of air. And, of course, my frazzled brain is incapable of using said air for anything other than talking. “Um, hi, I should mention that, um, self-harm is not something to be romanticised, like, it’s not some romantic and dramatic battle out of which I’ve come triumphant but tragically wounded it’s actually a real problem and it’s a really horrible one so like if you’re just into me all of a sudden because you think me having mental health problems is cool or makes me strong or whatever then no because I mean like that’s what Marcel thought um not the romantic part he just thought it made me brave but it really doesn’t I just-“ I’m gasping like a fish. Probably a very unattractive fish. I violently hold my breath instead.

He’s laughing at me.

“No, shh, Diana, shh, sorry. Sorry, I should clarify:” he stops me, taking my hands again; I don’t remember letting go of his. “No, I don’t think self-harm is romantic, or whatever. Honestly, I think it’s sick. But what you said about people being the victims of it made sense to me. And, like, it’s not your fault. I just wanna help you fight it. And...” he looks down – there’s something in his eyes. What is that – is that... is that SHYNESS?! I struggle to breathe. I honestly don’t even know what colour I am right now.

“Diana, no, you’re right. It doesn’t make you attractive, all of this. But you’re, uh, you’re attractive anyway... And, um, like, I guess... what I’m trying to say... is that... listening to you talk about what you’ve been through... it just kinda made me aware of how many times I’ve been, like, one slip of the hand away from never meeting you at all. And... yeah, that’s kind of made me really emotional.” He pauses, still not looking up at me. “Sorry.”

I’m just staring. Staring and staring. 

Wow. What a guy.

“Well,” I inhale, letting go of Harry and stretching my arms above my head. “I really can’t trump that. So I think you should talk to Marcel, now.”

He looks at me anxiously. “What are you going to do?”

“What, me? Your brother’s self-harming and you’re worried about how I’m going to pass the time?”

He grins. “Markle’s got me and you looking out for him: how much safer could he be?”

I smile. I don’t believe it, but I smile anyway. “Okay, well. I’ll send him in. And then maybe go hide in a hole for a while.” I get up and head for the door. I’m shaking all over, be it adrenaline or tiredness or some barmy combination of everything all at once.

“What?! Why?” Harry calls as I leave.

“Because you freakin’ kissed me! That’s why!!” I call back, before knocking on Marcel’s door.

Harry’s answering laugh is the sound I take with me when I head downstairs. I ask Anne if she could possibly drop me off back home before tea today – I have a lot of homework and I need to get back. The real reason being that the boys are going to have a lot to talk about and, close as I am to both of them, it is not my place to hang around while they work things out together. I’d rather die than come between that.

The other reason of course being that it’s been a ridiculously long Thursday for me, and, while Harry may have thought I was joking about the hiding in a hole part, I really would quite like to sleep now.


	7. A Catalan Opening

Eleanor’s face when I tell her the next day is absolutely brilliant. She nearly gets sent out of History for squealing. I don’t give her the context of the kiss, of course, but details – I give her lots and lots of details. 

“Oh my God oh my God oh my GOD! WE CAN DOUBLE DATE!!”

I laugh. “I’m really not sure he actually wants to date me, Ells. It was probably just a spur of the moment thing.

“Pshhhh, don’t be daft – of course he does.” She argues my case enthusiastically all the way out of the classroom and along to the sixth form area at breaktime. I’m fairly certain that Harry’s affection was brought on by, as he’d said himself, quite a lot of excess emotion rather than any actual feelings for me. That doesn’t mean I’m not happy about it – God knows it’s more than I’d ever dreamt of, but Eleanor’s convictions, I am sure, are made in ignorance of Harry’s distressed and pressured mental state at the time, and thus are most probably invalid. I let her talk, though. Dissatisfied by my unbelief in the reality of his feelings, she stubbornly decides it will all come down to how he greets me this morning – with apathy or with openness. Which of course means that as we approach the guys I start to feel slightly ill.

Then Harry looks up and brightens immediately. My mouth tingles and I lose all control of my facial muscles. “Heyyy, D!” He steps around Niall and immediately goes for the hug.

I’m absolutely delighted. It doesn’t erase all my doubts, exactly, but the warmth of him – the smell of him – comforts me.

We break apart, a little breathlessly. He’s beaming down at me. “Hey, um, so how did it go… last night?” I lower my voice slightly.

“Well in one way, quite well,” he says, winking. Oh my God he means me. I blush. Then he leans into me, keeping it quiet and close, private. “Uuh, yeah. Yeah, okay. I mean, it was awful, but at the same time…” He sighs heavily. “I can’t thank you enough, Diana. Neither of us can.” His gaze is very intense. “Also-“ he brightens up “-can I have your phone number? I kinda wanted to text you last night –tell you how things went, but…”

“Uh… uh, sure!” I fumble my phone out of my pocket, all tremble-ey and brainless.

We exchange numbers and he beams at me. I don’t get another chance to speak to him individually, as we pretty quickly get drawn into an intense discussion between Niall and Louis about whether music or football is more fulfilling. 

When I see Marcel at lunchtime, though, I get a bit more of an insight. He jumps up as soon as I enter the library and just throws his arms around me.

“Hey! Hey, Marcel, hey,” I smile into his shoulder. He’s squeezing me extremely tightly.

“Thank you, Diana, thank you so much oh my God,”

“Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay…” We both hold on for a moment.

He lets me go, composing himself slightly. “Ugh, thank you. Sorry.”

We sit down in our usual places, but never really get around to chess. Instead, Marcel tells me with flushed cheeks all about his conversation with Harry.

“So, all in all it achieved what we were looking for, I think.”

“Good! Good, I’m really glad. Harry was, like, impressively accepting, when I talked to him.”

He nods. “He’s not the deepest person, but I feel like he has all the potential for being quite reflective. He IS quite emotional-“ my heart lurches a little. I gulp. “It wasn’t easy to talk the whole time - and, like, both of us cried. Quite a lot, at various different points-“

“Harry CRIED?”

“Oh, yeah, he did.” He smiles at me and pushes his glasses up his nose. “He, uh, he wanted me to show him what I’d done to myself, and then he just, like, held my arms in his hands and cried, for, like, ages.” His lip trembles. 

“Oh Marcel, I’m so sorry, c’mere,” I hug him again.

“Yeah, yeah I’m okay. It was okay. Actually, it was kind of… amazing…”

“For him to finally know?”

“Yeah. I mean, I don’t know what you did, but he was really understanding and supportive and just, ugh-“ he wiggles with happiness “-he’s amazing. You’re amazing. Everything’s amazing!”

We beam at each other.

“And, also, D,” uh oh – there’s a gleam in his eye. I can feel the heat rising in my face. “He didn’t SAY anything, but when I mentioned you he kind of… I think he likes you, D. When I asked him outright he kicked me out of his room.”

“He WH-“

“No, no, like, it was past midnight and I needed to go to bed anyway. We talked for, like, years. It was really, really great.”

I smile at him. “Well, good. I’m glad. So it’s made then? The promise?”

He nods solemnly. “And I’ll be darned if I don’t keep it. There’s nothing quite as… as awful as watching your brother cry because of you.”

I nod. “I get that. I made my therapist cry once.” I physically jolt at the memory. It had been one of the worst moments of my life.

“Oh, yeah! Harry said! Your therapist-“

“Zayn’s sister! I know, right!”

“That’s so cool!”

“Argh!”

“You should tell him, y’know.”

“D’you think so? I don’t know if I can pluck up the courage to just, like, y’know, go up to him and be like ‘heyy, your sister’s saved my life! Like, a gazillion times’…”

“Aw, no, Zayn’s a really friendly guy. He used to come around a lot and he was always really nice to me. If I’m honest, I kind of miss him.”

“Yeah, so does Harry.”

We fall into a contemplative silence.

Things move fast that week, but I stay in that same contemplative silence for a while. I keep thinking about Zayn and Liam. They really can’t be all that bad, to have been loved so dearly by the Styles boys… 

And yet, the bullying that Marcel’s experiencing: it always comes right back to one name: Payne. I can’t really reconcile the reports I’ve had of Zayn with the violence that tags itself along with Liam’s name. I decide to withhold judgement until I know them personally. At least, in Zayn’s case. And I’m quite eager to meet him.

And, actually, the opportunity arises sooner than I’d been expecting.

I’m standing in the cafeteria queue at breaktime with Louis and Eleanor – more out of loyalty than anything else – I’m itching to run for the hills. There are so many people here. Even just going and sitting at one of the tables in the fairly empty-ish café area in the corner would be better than this-

I look across, feeling jumpy, and see Zayn sitting by himself, texting.

I stare for a minute. If I had the guts, this would be a perfect opportunity to just go up to him... Do I dare? Then a group of kids barge past me, shoving me into Louis.

“Woah! Woah, I gotcha, D.” He cheerily grabs my arms and balances me as I stumble. Eleanor shouts something generically rude after them and I go bright red.

“Uh, I’m, uh- I’ll go wait for you over there,” I cough, edging away nervously. They’re fine with it, which leaves me nothing to do but walk mock-casually towards Zayn, trying not to look at him.

I kind of hesitate when I level with his table, and I’m about to chicken out and keep walking when he looks up and meets my eye.

“Hi,” he smiles at me.

“Uh, hi! I’m uh, I’m Diana. Hi.” I blurt out. He’s staring at me - oh God. Well, I’ve begun now: I may as well continue. “Um, you’re… you are Zayn Malik, aren’t you? Ahhah I mean, yes you are. Hello. Hi, Zayn,” oh my God kill me now.

“Uh, yeah, hi,” he chuckles in a bemused way. Oh my God he even SOUNDs like Alison. “Uh, you okay, sweetheart?”

“Um… yes.” Defiant of my anxiety, I plonk myself down opposite him. He looks startled. I breathe deeply. I am SO not cut out for this kind of thing. “Um, hi. You, uh, you’re from Bradford, aren’t you?”

He chuckles. “The accent that obvious, like?”

“Completely. But, uh, well - I don’t have much of an accent, but I just moved from there, too.”

“Oh, right! Ma homie,” he grins and holds up his hand for a bro-fist. I smile nervously and oblige. They’re right: he IS friendly. I relax – just a little bit.

“Uh, so,” I decide not to mention Harry. “I transferred here from Tong High School-“ his eyebrows go up in recognition “-and, like, I was wondering… ‘Malik’… is Alison Malik your sister, by any chance?” I mean, I know she is, but, like, I dunno how to talk to people normally. Whatever.

He looks totally delighted though. “Oh my God, yes she is! Ali!”

“Yeah, Ali!” We beam at each other.

“Oh my God, wow, that’s really cool. Did you know her really well?”

I duck my head a little bit. The probing nature of the question doesn’t miss me. “Uh, yes I did. Um, quite well, in fact…”

“Ah, right. I mean, I know she’s the school therapist, so I don’t wanna pry…”

I swallow my nerves a little bit and smile at him. “No, it’s okay. She was the best. I’m still in contact with her, actually. She’s, uh, she’s a great therapist.”

“Oh, right! Yeah, I can bet she’d be awesome. She’s really good at listening, an’ stuff.” He runs a hand through his pristine hair, smiling at me. The situation is still awkward, but not unbearably so. And he’s really making an effort to carry the conversation, for which I am so, so grateful. I suck at that. “Ah, I really miss Ali. I could talk to her about, like, ANYthing. Anything at all.”

“Yeah! Me too,”

“Y’know – we moved up here a couple years ago – she stayed in Bradford specifically so she could help this one girl she really cared about. One of her, like, patients or whatever, was like, really struggling, poor kid. But she insisted on staying for her, even though me and me mum and all the rest of my sisters were coming here. Like, she’s just the nicest person…”

I stare at him. My heart’s beating fast. I kind of really, really don’t want to know how much he knows, but at the same time…

There’s absolutely nothing but kindness in his face. Very, very carefully, I nosey around the subject a little bit.

“Uh, she stayed for one person? Like, just one person specifically? Oh… that IS nice…” that was so lame oh my God what am I doing I should just get out of here.

“Yeah, she used to talk about her all the time. Really worried about her, but, like, was too nice to just cut her off.“ I lurch a little, but I don’t think he notices. “She dealt with some seriously broken people. She used to come home and just, like, offload to me and Doniya about them – that’s my other older sister. We were all really close. But yea, she kinda made me realise what a rubbish place school can be.” He smiles, and it’s so fond, so affectionate, I want to hug myself. “She never said any of their names, don’t worry. But like, I probably know more than I should about most of them. Particularly that one girl… poor sod, I just wanna find her and give her a hug. Obviously she needs more than that, but…” he chuckles softly.

I gulp. I feel a deep impulsive need to own that title.

“What did she tell you about her?”

This question is really not so discreet – dammit, Diana – and he notices immediately. Giving me a look, he says slowly, “I’m not so sure I can… say…? Wait- oh my God-“ Zayn sits up and stares at me.

Oh my God oh my God oh my God he’s figured it out I’m going bright red I’m shaking oh my God. 

“Diana!” He says, like my name is the answer to life, the universe and everything.

“Oh God, hi.” I bury my face in my arms, slumping onto the table. I await his dire judgment and disdain in pathetic dread. 

Instead, though, he laughs.

“I can’t believe it! You’re HER! Oh my God, I’m sorry, I’m not even supposed to know. I only know her name – uh, your name, I guess – because I used to be able to hear Ali on the phone to… you… from next door. Her room was right next to mine… oh my GOD…”

“Yeah, I used to call her, like, every day when…. When things were bad…” I mumble into my arms. I daren’t look up. 

Something touches my arm and I yelp, leaping back in my chair faster than a cat out of a lightning storm.

“Sorry! Crap, sorry, didn’t mean t’scare ya,” he’s still chewing his gum. I take a deep breath in and meet his eyes. He’s just looking at me with this sympathetic pity, which would be unbearable if it weren’t tempered with a kind kind of understanding. 

There’ something close to compassion in the way he’s leaning across the table towards me. “Hey, I’m not judging you,” God, he read my mind.

I give an almighty sniff. “I know, I know, I just- oh my God, sorry,” I’m actually crying, what is this. I throw my head back and stare at the ceiling, breathing shakily. I can’t quite contain it though, and Zayn stands up. Alarmed, I jump to my feet as well, but he just smiles at me.

“I said I just wanted t’hug ya – come here,” and next thing I know I’ve met him around the table and he’s just letting me cry into his denim jacket. Emotional and mortified, I get myself under control pretty quickly, but he hugs me for a moment more. It’s really quite nice actually. Hugging strangers would normally reduce me to a mess of anxious trembling, but there’s something about him that reminds me so much of Ali that I can hardly help but feel safe around him. He’s just kind of a gentle hugger, too.

He lets go and grins at me. “You alright, yeah?”

I breathe deeply and nod. “Hahah, yeah. Yeah, I’m okay, sorry.”

“Nah, you got nothing to apologise for. One thing with havin’ Ali for a sister – I kinda get, like, crying and like, struggling ‘n’ all that.” He drops so many of his consonants when he talks – it’s like listening to Niall sing. I decide I like him.

He lightly puts a hand on my shoulder and holds my gaze. “You ever need anything, ‘kay, jus’ ask. M’kay... you take care of y’self, yeah?” He beams at me lopsidedly – why is everybody in this school ridiculously gorgeous – and then waltzes off. Well, not literally waltzes – I think I’m just a little dizzy. My world is spinning.

“What was THAT about?” Says Harry’s voice. He’s come up behind me and is frowning after Zayn with a poignant mixture of sadness and suspicion. I just throw my arms around him and bury my face in his shoulder.

“Nthng,” I mumble, face pressed into the warm darkness. “Just his sister. He’s really nice.”

“He is, isn’t he?” Harry’s face crinkles up as he smiles, and he glances again at Zayn’s path away from us. “He is... C’mon, I gotta get to Business Studies.” His face crinkles up in a different way. I laugh shakily.

We walk away, close together but not quite touching. Eleanor and Louis are behind us, talking together in hushed voices.

All this talk of Ali has made me miss her more than ever, so when I get home that night I take a deep breath and pull out my phone.

I smile a little to myself. I tap in her number. I know it by heart, and I have many memories of just sitting in the corner of my bedroom, typing it in, deleting it, typing it in, deleting it – I never have had any trepidation about calling her, but sometimes just the IDEA of doing so was enough to help me through a dark day.

Her phone rings twice before she picks up.

“Diana! Heyy, it’s so good to hear from you!”

I open my mouth to say ‘hi, how come you never told me I was moving to the same place as your brother’, but instead I just burst into tears. I sink to the floor and hug myself and just cry and cry and cry. And she totally takes it in her stride. Man, she’s fantastic. 

I keep repeating ‘I love you I love you I love you’ over and over again; the past couple months have been bewildering for me, to say the least, and it’s only now, DAYS before the Christmas holidays, that I’m beginning to come to terms with some painfully astonishing truths.

Eventually I manage to talk, and then I don’t stop talking. I’d been partially exaggerating my contact with Ali – sure, we text a lot, but I’ve only actually called her once since school started. I’ve always been too tired or too preoccupied. But once I start talking to her again, I just fall back into the safe familiarity of hearing her voice, and I tell her everything. It’s so cathartic. As I tell her all about Harry and Marcel, and Eleanor and Niall and Louis and eventually Zayn, it finally starts to sink in that I have friends.

I have friends. 

I HAVE FRIENDS.

This is going to be the best Christmas ever.

And it really is: Eleanor organises a surprise birthday party for Louis on Christmas Eve, telling him that we’re all going out for a Christmas meal, and while I’m absolutely terrified, Marcel tells me he’s coming, and so I stick with him for most of the evening.

Louis, of course, absolutely loves it. There are crowds of people there whom I’ve never spoken to, and it’s at Eleanor’s house, so I’m, like WAYYY out of my depth on the social front. Marcel and I stick together though, and Harry’s actually remarkably selfless in terms of how often he abandons his post as the centre of attention and comes and chats with us in the corner. Marcel continuously nudges me and winks a lot, and while I’m flattered by the attention and appalled at Marcel’s cheekiness, both Harry and I are kind of nervously skirting around each other, hopeful but shy. It’s very cute on his part – on my part I’m mostly just a bundle of incoherency.

When everyone starts getting drunk, Marcel and I make ourselves useful by cleaning up spilled drinks, clearing empty beer cans and refilling staggering people’s glasses with water and telling them it’s vodka, that sort of thing. It’s actually quite good fun – there’s something so satisfying about cleaning – and the last thing a very happy Eleanor says to us as we drag Harry out of the door at quarter to two in the morning, is that we are totally hired for future house parties.

Anne has invited me and my mum over to their house for Christmas day, which makes me feel both a little bit ill, and completely warm inside. I gotta say, though – hung over Harry in Christmas socks and an oversized jumper is so cute I nearly can’t eat the dinner Anne’s cooked for us.

I’m also really touched by how happy my mum looks. Her and Anne have met before, and Anne’s always saying how much she likes my mum, but it’s still really comforting to know that she isn’t lonely. Sometimes I worry that I’m not half the daughter I should be – after all, I hardly see my mum. But, watching her and Anne get steadily tipsier on the eggnog is definitely a good feeling.

Despite my solemn oath, Eleanor had dragged me Christmas shopping with her, for which I was actually quite grateful. She has great taste, and otherwise I would’ve had NO idea what to get Harry and Marcel for Christmas.

I’m extremely embarrassed to have to sit and watch them open their presents – especially Harry, but I hold my nerve, and then laugh for an absolute eternity at Harry’s face.

It had sort of been my idea, but it had come to me when I’d asked Eleanor what girls are even supposed to get boys for Christmas.

“Like, what do BOYs get boys for Christmas?!” I had asked her in a bewildered voice.

Her unhesitating answer had been: “food. Loads and loads of food. Just – food.” And so we had raided Tesco’s.

Harry’s present looks at first like an extremely dense Business Studies text book, specifically because it is his least favourite subject, and the look he gives me is nearly perfectly awful. Which is really quite funny, because then he opens it up and it’s just full of Oreos. 

It had taken me the best part of a day and a half to carefully hollow out all the pages, not to mention our entire shopping trip to find a perfectly sized textbook to conceal three packets of cookies. I’ve also bought him a smallish cardboard box with various favourite foods of mine that I think he should try, due to a conversation we’d had a while ago about his fixation on the same three types of sweet.

Harry’s absolutely delighted, and lies on the sofa laughing before rolling off to give me a hug.

Marcel’s present is slightly less imaginative, but he absolutely loves it, so no complaints there: it’s a gold chess piece.

“Um, you’ve seen Inception, right?” I ask, nervously. “It’s like the totem, thing. I dunno. It’s 18 carat, so it’s not solid gold, but I thought it was quite cool-“

“God, D, I love it,” he says breathlessly, clutching it to his chest before flinging his arms around me.

“Mmf – m’kay, ‘mglad you like it-“

“I love it I love it I love it-“

“Let’s have a look,” says Harry from beside me, mouth full of Oreos. Marcel passes it to him. Harry looks at it closely, turning it over in one hand. It’s a King. He looks at me. “That’s gorgeous. Where did you find it?”

“Uh, E-bay. It was super cheap – I mean, for that much Gold – because it was being sold off as part of an incomplete set, but you could buy them all separately... It IS kind of beautiful, isn’t it?”

Harry passes the King back to a thrilled Marcel without taking his eyes off me. “Yes... it is,” he says softly. I go bright red and melt into a puddle, which then boils into steam which evaporates and bounces off the walls as air particles-

The mums aren’t paying attention – they’re currently all about the recipe swapping and the cook books. Not to mention the various items of jewellery everyone has given them.

“Okay, D, here’s your present from me-“ Marcel hands me... something. I think it’s a book.

“Is that-“

“Um, yeah, Harry, shush-“

“Really?” Says Harry, in a tone which would suggest he’s just been told a mildly interesting science fact. 

I’m not listening. I nearly tear up that they’ve even bothered to think of me. Which is silly, really, and I know if I voice it out loud they’ll both tell me to shut up and value myself more. So I just beam and gingerly tear off the paper.

It’s a chess book. I grin. Then I laugh. I hug it tightly and look at him. “Thank you so much, Marcel, aahahaaha.”

“Lemme have a look at that-“ Harry’s frowning. I look at him curiously and hand it to him. His eyebrows go up when he takes it, and he looks up at both of us with a soft kind of grin. “Okay, D, you gotta understand that this is my brother’s favourite book ever – because he’s the kind of nerd who has a favourite book – and, like, he’s GIVING it to you.”

“I learnt to play chess from that book,” says Marcel proudly. “It taught me well, I think.”

“Good grief, you’re such a nerd-“ Harry hands it back to me.

I take it reverently. I’m so touched I hardly know what to say. The brothers banter back and forth over my head and I kind of rock myself with happiness, clutching one of Marcel’s most prized possessions in my arms.

He says something to me, but I hardly hear him. I just lurch forwards and hug him tightly. “Thank you,” I whisper, and he just hugs me back.

Getting Harry’s present is hardly less emotional – he doesn’t seem outwardly fazed by it, but there’s something in his expression which makes me quiver all over.

He’s made me six different mix CDs of his favourite music. There is absolutely nothing I can say to that. 

I do cry at one point in the afternoon, but I spend the day in a happy place – sandwiched between Harry and Marcel, sat on their living room carpet, chatting and giggling and arguing vehemently with Harry about the best Dave Matthews Band album.

He says ‘Busted Stuff’, which I do love, but I’m all about ‘Before These Crowded Streets’.

He grins at me. “One of these – hang on – this one, has some DMB on it I think. Only a couple live versions of some of their best-“

“-in your opinion-“

He grins at me. “Yeah – but the rest is kinda eclectic.” We smile at each other for a little too long for me to think of anything but the fact that in his room, in this very house, HARRY KISSED ME. It must be quite obvious that I’m thinking about that, because it’s kind of written all over Harry’s face as well.

I kind of just want to curl up by his side and never, ever leave, but we are in the company of other people, so I make an effort not to turn into a human lapdog – or, like, drool all over myself or something.

It’s only when we’re leaving that evening that Harry pulls me back for a moment, ducking into the currently vacated living room.

“Harry? You okay?” My hands are shaking. I cling to my book and my CDs.

“Look, D,” he meets my eye. He’s also going slightly red, and it’s a little too much for me.

“If you don’t talk quickly I’m going to pass out...” I say, blinking at him a little.

He stares back at me, then gets the biggest smile on his face. “Well okay then.” And he touches my face lightly with his fingertips, and he kisses me.

“I kind of think you’re amazing,” he says quietly, resting his forehead on mine. His eyes are closed and he’s still gently touching my face. I feel completely, completely safe, and that is more profound for me than any romantic quivering or whatever. “Do you... like,” he takes a deep breath in but doesn’t move.

“Um, if you’re asking me if I’d like to stand like this with you forever... I totally would...”

He laughs softly and moves away to look at me. We gaze at each other. “Well okay, then. Put your stuff down.”

I obey, and then he moves in swiftly and wraps his arms around my waist, resting his head on my shoulder, and holds me. It’s so soft and so gentle I nearly combust. We fit together perfectly, my arms around him, forehead on his neck. I’m someone who has difficulty standing within two feet of anybody – for heaven’s sake, I used to get panic attacks if someone looked me in the eye. I have anxiety issues and I’m terrified of being touched. I rip myself to shreds – not necessarily physically but emotionally – on a nearly daily basis. I feel exhausted and diminished after a whole day of just being near people. I’m better than I used to be, but I’m not a social butterfly. I never will be. Just getting up in the morning is an achievement for me. A huge one. Every single time.

And yet, if anybody knows that, it’s Harry. After all, I had explained it to him pretty clearly, sitting on his bed upstairs.

And now, despite everything, he’s making it pretty clear that he wants me. It’s amazing that I’ve found anybody with whom I feel this safe – this secure. This is more than I ever thought I’d be able to do. Just having friends is enough to fortify me a little, but standing there in the arms of somebody who genuinely loves me – probably not quite in that way completely, but in a devoted and truthful way – is more than I thought I’d ever get in a thousand lifetimes. Right now I want to go back in time and pick myself up from the hard, cold bathroom floor and hug myself. Just to let myself know that it’s worth getting up today. It’ll be worth getting up every day if it leads here

“So... will you go out with me then?” Says Harry into my hair, after just standing like that with me for ages.

It doesn’t disrupt the peace he’s bringing me in an any way – rather, as I laugh and tell him I’d be thrilled, that peace and affirmation settles somewhere deep behind my collarbone. My chest is always constricting for some reason – whether it be terror or despair, or just regular ol’ day to day anxiety, but I feel something comforting there, right now. I’m not fool enough to think this is the finish line of a very long race, or whatever, but there’s something buoying about it for sure.

In a parting gesture, Harry, VERY gently, takes my head in his hands and touches my forehead with his lips. I close my eyes, that buoyancy strengthening into a lightness I don’t recognise. I wonder if this is how it feels to be confident – assured.

Safe.

Eventually Marcel has to come drag us out, because we do really need to leave – it’s nearly 11 o’clock – and neither Harry nor I feel like moving. I’m not worried that we’ve outstayed our welcome, though. Which is a remarkable thing to be able to say, let alone feel. On Christmas day. The safety and assurance and warmth of friendship really cannot be underestimated.

As I finally find the will power to walk away, Harry calls to me, “I fully expect you to know every single one of those songs by the time we get back to school, mind!”

I laugh and wave back to him, curiously at peace with the world. My mum’s looking at me as we get into the car. We exchange a happy look and she beams, telling me she’s happy for me, and she had a wonderful time, and she’s really glad that, whatever else, we have the Styles.

I don’t always see eye to eye with her, but I have to say, on this one, I totally agree.


	8. The Four Knights Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay trigger warnings really start kicking in here. Don't worry - it never gets graphic, but this is not a fun chapter. Take care of yourselves. Pause for a minute between lines. Eat doritos whilst reading. If it's two in the morning then SLEEP and carry on tomorrow. Love you all x

The CDs Harry has given me become my anthem for the next few weeks. That buoyancy doesn’t quite leave me, but listening to the songs makes the warmth spread from my chest cavity through to all the rest of my body. I listen to all six CDs pretty much non-stop, and battle my way through Marcel’s chess book with all the attentive understanding I can muster. It is actually quite good fun to read, I’m not gonna lie.

Much to Eleanor’s delight, we do kind of double date once, in the holidays. Well, only Eleanor would call it that, as the four of us just kind of loiter around in town for a while and go to a coffee shop, but she’s absolutely thrilled the second she sees me and Harry holding hands. Niall’s flown off to Ireland for a few weeks to visit extended family, and the dynamic isn’t the same without him, but I have a great time – not least because Louis at one point steals Harry’s shoe and the two of them chase each other all over the market square while me and Eleanor sit together on a bench, watching and snorting with laughter every time one of them falls over.

“So – you two officially a thing, now?”

I blush. She’s smiling at me quite radiantly. “I guess so. I mean – he asked me out on Christmas day, so yes.”

“That is SO. CUTE. Uuugh you guys are gonna kill me, I swear.”

“Or they’re gonna kill each other, look-“ we both laugh as Harry tackles Louis to the ground and they faceplant into a dustbin.

They come back to us grinning, though, and Harry immediately slips his hand in mine, smiling at me whilst denouncing Louis’s friendship forever. It completely thrills me when he does little things like this. They make that buoyancy a little stronger. And having constant hand-in-hand contact with somebody else is something which I never, ever thought I’d be able to do.

Actually, I’m doing a lot of things with Harry that I never thought I’d be able to do (ew no, not THOSE kind of things no thank you ew: mind – gutter; you read too much fanfiction). Just things like holding his hand in public, hugging him, even just being with him in such intimate vicinity. He’s an absolute joy to everyone, as well. I don’t think I’d like him half as much if he weren’t just a generally all around lovely person. He never kisses me in front of anybody else, which just further proves his incredible sensitivity to my rather nervous disposition. I do just find myself dwelling on how it really is extraordinary that the security he brings me even extends as far as hand-holding, but I dunno, maybe I’m just getting braver.

He’s very considerate, as well. He asks me things like “you do know that a lot of people are probably going to be not very nice to you because you’re dating me, don’t you?” in this adorable tone of voice.

“Um, what – you think people will be jealous of me?!” I squeak a little bit when I say that. I’ve never had anybody jealous of so much as my shoelaces. Although, actually, I do have pretty cool shoes. Doc Martens ftw.

Harry immediately wraps his arms around me and says “S’okay. Don’t worry, D. I am not going to let anybody hurt you, ever again. Ever. Including yourself.” Which totally didn’t make me cry myself to sleep that night.

A hopeless, fluffy romantic he may be, but God knows I love him. It’s like, with Harry so close to me, so wrapped up in my thoughts and feelings, I don’t actually have SPACE to get to myself. For some people they might claim they need distance, but for me, not being able to reach myself means not being able to hurt myself. And that can only be a good thing. For once the place closest to my heart is FILLED with good things. Good things that couldn’t be better.

Then, the day before school starts up again, disaster strikes.

Or rather, the same continuing disaster strikes again, but this time Marcel can’t hide it from Harry. Possibly because it’s the holidays and they’re both home, but also because this is so much worse.

I get a text from Marcel which just says:

‘Broke up w Leeroy. I’m OK.’

I try to call him immediately, worried about him in a naive kind of way, but he doesn’t pick up.

Thinking nothing of it, I trudge to school the next day not expecting anything but the usual amount of turmoil. Of course, Marcel didn’t mention WHY he’d broken up with Leeroy. Or how. Of course he didn’t tell me.

Before first lesson, Louis sprints up to me.

“Diana, have you seen Harry?!”

“What? Louis- no, I haven’t-“

He‘s not looking at me. “Shit… Okay. More to the point, have you seen Marcel?!” Something dark inside me reacts to the urgency in his tone.

“No - Louis, what’s happened?” I can feel the panic rising in my chest, but having an attack now won’t help anybody. I struggle to get a grip on myself.

He stares at me. He’s still breathing heavily. He must’ve been running for a few minutes. “Did you know he was dating Leeroy?” He asks blankly. Panic panic panic. I clench my teeth.

“Yes, I did- I’m sorry, I should’ve, um-”

“No, no, it’s not you. It’s all over school. A bunch of Payne’s friends-“ he spits the name “-found them together in town-“ Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no - no no no no “-and as far as I can tell, Marcel got beat up pretty badly.”

Without even thinking about it I grab his arm and clench until my fingers crack. “oh no, oh no, oh no oh no oh no oh no-“

“D, you okay?” He sounds alarmed, he puts an arm on my shoulder. I can’t have a panic attack now I can’t I need to find Marcel. “Diana, look at me. Breathe.” And Harry. I have to find Harry or else he’s going to-

“SHIT. Where’s Harry!?” I gasp.

“My point exactly,” says Louis grimly. I stare at him. I can’t think. Louis says, “c’mon,” and we both take off running towards the sixth form area.

It’s a bit too late though. There’s a crowd of people gathered near the doors and I stick close behind Louis as he relentlessly shoves them out of his way. Crowds and crowds – I can’t be worried about them now. I can’t.

Harry and Liam are having something dangerously close to a fight in the middle of the room. There’s a palpable expectation of violence sitting on the tongues of the spectators.

“I don’t know anything about your kid brother, Styles, back off. I’m serious-”

“Don’t fucking lie to me, Payne, or so help me I will break you-“ Harry snarls at him, getting right up in his face.

“I said I don’t fucking KNOW!” Harry makes some kind of lunge and Liam blocks him, yelling. Liam backs off. “I gotta get to my lesson, Styles. Just- calm the fuck down, okay, I’ll find whoever it was...” To Liam’s credit he keeps the venom in his voice to a minimum, backing towards the door with a wary expression. As he turns to go, Harry takes a step forward.

Louis moves quickly but Niall gets there first. Thank God for Niall.

“Harry, let him go,” he says in a serious tone, putting his arm out in Harry’s path. Harry’s hands are balled into fists and he’s shaking. Actually it might just be me who’s shaking. I think I’m about to pass out. I realise I haven’t been breathing.

I take an enormous gasping breath that probably no one hears. Then, just as my knees give way, someone catches me. “Hey, I got ya, s’okay, keep breathing” says a low voice in my ear. I vaguely recognise the tattoos on the arm I’m gripping – it’s Zayn.

I cling to him, breathing fiercely. “S’okay,” he murmurs. I have to get control I have to be able to breathe Marcel oh God where is Marcel-

“Get OFF her!” Someone bellows, and the next thing I know I’ve been pushed backwards. I reel and someone else grabs me. I think it’s Eleanor. She grips my hands tightly. I can feel myself slipping under oh God help me God help Marcel-

“Woah, okay, Harry, okay... I was just tryna help...” says Zayn, taking a slow step backwards and raising his hands. I think Harry shoved him. I can hear his breathing over my own, and mine’s loud.

“Don’t fucking talk to me,” he snarls, before striding past him for the door. People scramble out of his way. He kicks it open so hard that it slams against the wall and makes a permanent dent. I don’t know where he’s going. I don’t know what’s happening. I can’t see. I can’t breathe.

“Louis! Go after him!” Screeches Eleanor in my ear, and Zayn’s standing motionless, watching him go, but I can’t see his face because I’ve fallen over and oh God Marcel I hope you’re okay oh my God help me-

I start shuddering and shuddering. I’ve pulled Eleanor down with me and I grip onto her hands, unable to unclench any of my muscles as my brain flips out and my entire body goes into panic mode. I pull my arms over my head and I am seconds away from hyperventilating.

It’s like a rerun of all of my worst waking nightmares. This is nearly full-blown panic. The illusion of control is well out of my grasping reach. I can hear voices and I’m holding my breath and my vision is going and my eyes are so tightly closed it hurts it hurts it hurts please no-

Someone prises open one of my hands and pulls me up into a sitting position – I’m disorientated and bewildered and unable to feel anything but dread – I’m still not breathing – fending off the actual moment when I might snap-

Next thing I know there’s a phone in my hand I can hear a voice – it’s Alison. Dear God almighty it’s Alison.

“Diana? Diana, are you there, honey? Diana, I need you to breathe-“ there’s pandemonium around me but I grip the phone and suddenly unlock. Alison Alison Alison – I take a huge, reeling breath in and my eyes fly open. In an enormous flood of stimulus I take in everything at once. Eleanor is kneeling beside me looking at me and there are legs in front of me, shielding me from the general crowds who are making SO much noise. I’m shaking so hard. I take another huge breath.

“That’s good. That’s really good. Okay, all you need to do right now is keep breathing. Slowly. Remember what I told you, count. In… Out… Breathe, Diana, breathe. You’re safe. You’re safe now. One… Two…”

Weakly I raise a hand to my eyes, blocking the glaring bright lights. My body is shaking, flooded with this sickly kind of adrenaline and after-shock. My muscles hurt. 

Ali keeps counting with me and I breathe. Slowly. I don’t know whose phone this is. I don’t even really know where I am. I have some vague notion of school, of pandemonium, but I can’t even see straight, let alone recollect.

She keeps counting. I keep breathing. My body remembers this feeling. I retreat deep inside myself, shell-shocked, wretched, and miserable. The past has slammed me down and I cannot currently reach the present, let alone think about the future.

It takes me a long time to be okay again.

I don’t make it to any of my lessons that day. I don’t know how long I’m down, but it’s lunchtime before I manage to move anywhere. Eleanor is by my side constantly and other people come and go. Louis’s face, all concerned and serious for once. Niall, who hugs me. Which actually wakes me up a little bit: I start to remember myself.

I withdraw so far when I have panic attacks. I go someplace deep inside me, beneath the layers and layers of fear. Like a lightless submarine, submerged in an ocean of both physical and mental overload. Like water, the fear gets everywhere. Fear that Harry has walked off the face of the planet and into a burning sun. Fear that Marcel is lying, lifeless and bleeding in a grave somewhere. Fear that the walls of the school will grow spindly arms and thick hands that will close around my neck as I walk the corridors. Fear that the sky will fall on my head. Strange, psychedelic daydreams, and a sluggish dis-attachment to reality. I feel drugged.

I don’t think I say a word all day. Or, at least, I’m not conscious of it. Nameless teachers peer into my face and faceless people ask me repeatedly if I want to go home.

Home.

It makes me think of Harry and Marcel and Anne, and a hearth in a living room that isn’t mine. No, I don’t want to go back to my house, but I do want to go home.

This is the first thought that really reaches me. For the first time all day, I try to speak. I just kind of end up grunting, but someone nearby me reacts.

I try again. I try to get behind my eyes, to see what’s in front of me.

It’s like rising up from the bottom of the ocean and breaking the water’s surface. Painful and clear, my eyes and ears bleeding from the immense pressure of the deep – reality is harsh. But the submarine inside me isn’t safe. I want to get back to the only thing that is.

“Harry…” I say. My voice is feeble.

“I don’t know where he is, honey. I think he might’ve gone home. D’you want me to ring him for you?”

I blink a lot and creakily turn my head. It’s Eleanor, God bless her. Eleanor is still here. She looks awful. I’m also still holding a phone. It isn’t mine.

I manage to hug her, and insist that I need the loo, but I’m okay to get to the bathroom on my own. She’s reluctant, but I ask her to go and find Louis for me and find out what happened after Harry had stormed out.

The second I’m out of sight, though, I head towards library.

I know this is where Harry will be. If Marcel is in school, this is where Marcel will be, and where Marcel is, there will be Harry. If Marcel isn’t in school, then Harry won’t have gone home yet. Nothing would be worse for Harry than affirming all of his little brother’s reasons for not telling him about the bullying in the first place, and if he goes home then questions are sure to be asked. And regardless of Marcel, if Harry’s anywhere at all at the moment that isn’t the Head’s office or police custody or something, it’s here.

No matter how I think through his reactions to the day, emotionally he winds up here. So do I, in fact. I need to be here. This is a safe place for me. And a place where Marcel is safe too.

I push open one of the library doors with shaky arms. The creak it makes in the quiet air makes me cringe. Everything today will make me cringe. Today is a day of fear.

And there he is. It’s the middle of a lesson, so nobody else is in here. He’s lying across a bench at the back with an arm over his face.

It’s cool and quiet in the library. I have no courage today. I have barely any life in me. Panic has drained all energy but for that of my basic functions. I step towards him.

Even though my system has been flooded with fear, and even though he’ll be feeling like hell and we’ll both be emotionally wrecked beyond belief, he’s still my safe harbour.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, leave me alone.” He says as I approach.

I freeze, but I’m a bit too dead to say anything besides “Um… okay, then... Sorry,” I turn away in bewilderment, and think maybe I finally might be able to cry.

He sits up almost immediately. “No! Wait- shit, I’m sorry, D, I thought you were a teacher or something.”

I turn and look at him. He’s sitting with his head in his hands. “Well, I’m sure that’d be a helpful way for you to address a teacher right now.”

He grunts and lies back down again.

There’s a few moments’ silence. I need to sit down. My legs aren’t supporting me properly and I’m swaying on the spot – I need to sit down.

“Um… d’you want me to go, or…”

“No… no, please, stay…”

I take the few steps forward, pause, then gingerly position myself on the floor beside him, facing outwards.

“Stay with me,” he murmurs, like an afterthought.

It’s an odd couple minutes; I sit with my back to the edge of the bench – although it’s more of a windowless window seat, really – and I can hear Harry breathing behind me. I feel safe again. A bit post-drowned, but safe.

“How did you know I’d be here?” He says after a couple minutes of slow breathing.

“Um,” my voice is all grainy, like I’ve been throwing up salt-water. I clear my throat but it doesn’t help; I clenched my body so hard I may have damaged something. It has happened before. “Because I wanted to be here too.”

He doesn’t reply to that. I sit looking at the phone in my hand, turning it over and over.

“Somebody left me with their phone,” I say stupidly. I’m almost too wrung out to care about how people might be thinking of me. Haha. That’s one way not give a damn – be exhausted beyond caring. Still, I can talk to Harry. I can say anything to Harry. He won’t care. “It has a Superman symbol graffitied onto the back.”

“It’s Zayn’s,” he says automatically. Then, with a bit more interest, “why has Zayn left you his phone?”

“Um… I don’t know… I think he handed it to me…” I shudder a little bit, and it physically hurts me. My shoulders twinge painfully. “I had, like, a fall... and when you-“ swallow. Breathe. SURELY I don’t even have enough left in me for another one? I start counting in my head. “When you walked out, I panicked a little bit… Zayn- Zayn must have called his sister as soon as he realised something was wrong. I just remember… there’s always that one moment in a panic attack, just before I lose control of my breathing – that’s the scariest part – when I’m like, all tensed up, and inside my head I’m just going, like-“ I take a breath. “I’m just begging for mercy. And that’s the worst part. When you call out – like, send out this raging distress signal, and nobody replies. Because, uh, nobody can hear you… And then you give up. You succumb, because you can’t stay standing on- on your own. You’re too weak. That’s the worst.”

Weak tears dribble from my eyes a little bit. I sniff a little and give a shaky laugh. “But this time somebody answered.” My head falls forward and I’m too tired to do anything but cry. “Thank you, Zayn.” It comes out in a croaky whisper.

Something touches my face and I freak out and nearly fall over.

“Sorry! Shit, I’m sorry, Diana, hey-“ he’s caught me. I’m okay. “Diana…” I look round at him. He’s propped up on one elbow, his hand hovering next to my cheek. “I am so sorry. Earlier... I should’ve checked to see if you were okay, I was just-“ he bows his head, then collapses back onto the bench, moaning, “oh God.”

“S’okay. It’s okay,” I shuffle closer to him and pull his arm down. I take his hand between my own. “It’s okay…” I murmur to us both, and pull my knees to my chest, touching our hands to my forehead.

“It’s not, though,” he says in a pained voice. It’s been a few more minutes of quiet breathing.

“I know. I mean, I know it isn’t. Is Marcel…” I’m almost afraid to ask him. For a few reasons. He doesn’t jump up and start smashing things, though.

“Oh, he’s alive. You should’ve seen him though, D.” He makes an awful, awful, choking noise. “He was just… and, like, the worst part was that he didn’t even cry when he came home. He had a fucking broken arm but he just- he just stood there. It was like they’d raped him or something. God, I’m gonna fucking murder them all-“ I can feel him shaking and I can hear him crying. I close my eyes and press my lips to his hand. We stay like that for a while.

The phone, which is now in my lap, vibrates once. It’s done this a few times, but I’ve mostly been distracted.

“Harry. I knew about it.” Oh God, please don’t let him be angry oh my God.

“What?” 

“I knew he was getting bullied. I- I’m so sorry. I should’ve said but he wouldn’t let me. The first day I met him- his leg, you remember-“

Harry’s arm tenses for a moment. His fingers grip mine. He sighs heavily. “I figured as much. I’ve even asked him before if he’s getting pushed around. He’s such a moron – if he’d just told me, I could’ve…” he falls helplessly into silence. We both know there’s nothing more he could’ve done. He’s already Marcel’s protector, in so many ways: that’s something he’s never failed at.

Even if he feels like it.

“You haven’t failed him, you know.”

“Yes, I have.”

“No-“ I squeeze his hand, matching his flat tone. “You haven’t.” In his returning squeeze I can feel both the disagreement and the gratitude, and even in a situation like this, it’s great to be loved.

“Where did you go? Straight after…?”

“Head’s office. Yelled in his face until he started slamming things and told me to calm down.” He huffs humourlessly. “I told him he had to goddam well do something or else I’d be taking things into my own hands. I was a proper arsehole, but, God, D, I was so angry…”

The phone buzzes again.

I breathe. I let go of him with one hand and look at the phone. Seven new messages from ‘Payno’.

Harry’s lying still behind me. I don’t think he can see what I’m doing.

There’s a pattern lock on Zayn’s phone, but I try a ‘Z’ and almost chuckle when it opens. Zayn could well murder me for this, but somehow I don’t think he will.

I read them in the sent order:

‘It was fucking Brendon this fucking son of a bitch I told u we shouldv thrown him off that bridge when we had the chance’

‘Z man where r u’

‘Zayn u gotta get me out of maths im gonna fuckn kill this guy’

‘for gods sake how did this even happen fucking morons its not like i like leeroy but marcel never did anything wrong god fucking damn’

‘Zayn I just got kicked out of maths for punching brendon in the mouth u gotta come find me im in the cafeteria’

‘gotta fucking hope leeroy will pull thru or shits gonna go down. Hope marcels ok. It’s not like I can ask harry he nearly fucking floored me this morning but I honesly don’t blame him’

‘Z we gotta talk to harry. Everyone else is gonna think im a fucking murderer but I don’t even care about them this is harrys fucking brother an hes a good guy. they’ve gone 2 far this time. sorry 4 swearng so much im just rly angry’

As I’m reading another text comes through; I nearly jump out of my skin.

‘i hate this. harry should’ve just decked me then id feel better. Its like u said: I do stupid stuff and feel so guilty that I do it again just to take my mind off shit’. god im gonna get murdered by my mum but brendon wouldn’t shut up about the ‘little homos’ god. how did we even end up knowing these people Z I gotta do something or im gonna kill sm1’

I stare at the phone, shaking. Another text comes in. This one just says:

‘gonna go home pls reply.’

“You okay?”

“Yeah!” I jump a little, startled, and drop the phone back into my lap. “I mean, no. Not really.” I decide not to mention Liam’s mini heartfelt breakdown. It wouldn’t help Harry right now for his girlfriend to start defending the person he was probably ripping to pieces in his head for comfort.

“D’you wanna come over after school?” He sounds so tired. I know exactly how he feels.

“Um… d’you think I should?”

He sighs heavily. “Probably not. I mean, Marcel wouldn’t even look at me yesterday. I nearly broke a window-“ he sits up, pulling his hand away “-and mum’s a mess. I know you’d just be helpful, but…” he looks at me.

Something like grief is in his eyes. We reach for each other at the same time. He pulls me up onto the bench and we cradle each other, desperately comforting and uncomforted.

We sit together until the final school bell rings.

“I gotta find Zayn...” I mutter reluctantly. “Give him his phone back...”

Harry nods once.

We walk out together, hand in hand. Just before leaving the library and going our separate ways, Harry takes my face in his hands and kisses me – quite passionately, I must say. It’s kind of blissful, but there’s a painful undercurrent of grief and fear in the way he hugs me afterwards that I can’t quite shake off. My chest hurts all the way along to the sixth form area.

I can’t see Zayn, and there is no way I am entering the fray to look for him – not today – absolutely no way in hell.

I decide instead to scroll through his contacts and see if there’s anyone I can call and say I’m trying to return his phone.

I know he has a few sisters in various years below us, but I can’t remember any of their names. I’m thinking there might be some classmates I know, and I’m resigning myself to having to speak to someone like Danielle or something, when a name I did not expect to see appears near the top of his favourites list.

It’s been an odd day all around, for sure, but this surely trumps it. Distracted for a moment, I click on the conversation and I scroll up to read some of the texts.

‘Zayn: Hey Niall, have u heard whats happened?

Niall: no, mate is everything ok? :( xx’

I have to laugh for a minute at Niall’s use of kisses and punctuation marks and emoticons and argh – that is just so Niall.

‘Z: some guys got to marcel and leeroy – u know, L’s cousin. i don’t know for sure but i think its bad xx

N: DDDD: oh shit!!! oh my god harry’s gonna tear him a new one!!! they okay?????!!? xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Z: ikr but you shud know it wasn’t Liam. we think it was either brendon or ashton and them lot. yea their ok but i think leeroys in hospital. i know he doesn’t like him much but liams pretty torn up about it x

N: omg i am so sorry man this is awful X(( 3 xxxxxxxx

Z: i know. i kinda wanna know if harry’s okay but don’t wanna ask him coz it might mak evrythng worse. can u text me? x

N: sure thing bro. hope u and Payne r ok :( xxxxxx’

And then from earlier today:

‘N: Zayn man u ok???!? im so sorry about harry!!!!!! he’s just really pissed don’t worry about it. is liam okay?? xxxxxx

N: how u doing? hows liam?? xxxx

N: Zzzzzzzzaayyyyyyynnnnnnn rreeeeeeeepppplllllyyyyyyyyyyyyy im dying ova here!!!!!!!! :((((((( xxxxxxx

N: jsyk bro i think D has still has ur phone xxxxxxxxx

N: DUH OMG HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH SORRY man sorry i am such an idiot aahaaha XD xxxxxxxxxxxx’

And that’s the last text. I blink for a moment at it, then burst out laughing – and it’s only a little bit hysterical. Oh, Nialler.

I’m still grinning when I call him and ask him if I can pass Zayn’s phone onto him. His side of the phone call goes something like:  
“ZAYN! MAN I’VE BEEN TEXTING YOU ALL DAY WHERE ARE YOU MAN WHAT’S GOING ON DID D GET YOUR PHONE BACK TO – oh, hey!! Hi, D! Oh my God, are you okay? Yeah, I’ve been so worried about you all day! We all have!! Have you seen Harry? Is he- oh good, okay, that’s good. –Uh, uh huh – Sure! Where are you? – okay, great, I’m coming, I’m on my way right now you just hold up there. By the way, how’d you ring me? –Really?! AAAhahah right, that’s Zayn for ya. But how did you know we were friends? – Yeah, we totally are. Like, now might not be the most helpful time to say it, but we get on really well. Like, REALLY well: a while back we went to an Iron Maiden concert together – mhmm, the lad has good taste in music. It was well fun...” and so on and so forth.

God bless him – he has just about the most joyful laugh I have ever had the good fortune to hear. It lifts my spirits a little.

He keeps chattering right up until the moment when we’re face to face. He briefly and sincerely asks me if I’m okay, and I nod resignedly. Then, after one quick hug, I give him the phone and make my way home.

It’s when I step across the threshold that it becomes difficult to live as I am. The day has been an undesirable one, but as the day doesn’t seem to be going anywhere, all the hours and events piled up in my immediate memory jeer at me, defying me to do something about it. I pick up a knife from the kitchen counter and fold it into a jumper.

I take it into my room and sit in the dark for a backwards two years room until my mum comes home, which is when I realise that she knows nothing. The words and the explanations and the energy stifle me, and so, in a tired voice, I tell her that she should call Anne, and no, I definitely do not want to talk about it.

It’s rude and it’s upsetting for her, I can see that. But she doesn’t know anything. She doesn’t know anything and she shouldn’t have to.

I’m tired. I lock myself in the bathroom. I open up the medicine cabinet and take out everything I could use. I sink to the cold tiled floor and lay them out in front of me.

Pills. The knife. Nail scissors. Aerosol cans. A razor blade.

As they sit, looking at me, I pull out my phone and text both Harry and Marcel, asking for updates, state of affairs, how you doing, I love you, please help me, please. Then I really do something dangerous: I turn my phone off.

I sit and stare in silence back at them all, this damned congregation in my sanctuary. This is about the future and the past, and which way the present will take me. And I just don’t know yet.

Eventually I can clear them all away – all except for the razor blade.

I sit and I stare it down, locked in an intense battle of strength and weakness – of honour and defiance– of good and bad. Of trying to work out which one is which.

I sit and I sit and I sit, and that’s eventually how I fall asleep.

I think it’s near five in the morning when I drift off, slumped against the bathroom wall, razor blade glistening before my feet, sleeves rolled up, skin unharmed, and mind far, far away.


	9. Norm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *trigger warning intensifies*  
> I make no apology for this chapter, but it IS grim. You can skip it if you want to - there are no enormous plot developments. But it was weirdly cathartic to write, and I can only hope that some of you might find truth in reading it.  
> But don't be afraid to stop for a bit if you need to <3

I wake with a start as my mum slams the front door. It’s six in the morning. Thank God we have separate bathrooms.

I scramble to my feet, neck and back aching. Then I reel back. I know there’s a razor on the floor in front of me. I know there is, but I can’t look at it.

I walk instead out into the dark, with cold feet and a heavy exhaustion that makes my internal workings grate like rusty cogs. The fridge blinds me and breathes a stale freshness all over my thin body when I open it.

In the fridge door I reach for the red wine bottle; my mum trusts me too much to notice if it goes down out of sync with her consumption. There’s absolutely nothing stopping me. Trust blinds people. The more trusting they are the less they choose to see. It’s not a problem with trust – it’s not even really a problem with people: it’s just a bit more difficult to navigate reality with your eyes half-closed. Of course, it makes some things easier. Like, you should always trust chairs. Chairs are functional, and nobody wants to be looking at every single chair they sit on for the rest of their life in the glaring light of the full truth, wondering constantly if it will hold you, worrying that it will let you down painfully. That would destroy you. You gotta trust chairs. It’s people who are tricky, because they might all look the same but when they step out of the half light they’re all like you. Never trust yourself. Buy into sleep-walking with your eyes half closed and trust whoever the hell you like. But never yourself. Stupid son of a bitch always lets you down. Stupid stupid stupid it would’ve hurt.

I turn my phone on as I drink straight from the bottle, toes curling up against the ice of an empty kitchen floor. The wine kind of makes me want to throw up, and the more so the more I drink, so I keep drinking. It’s so weighty and heady, so early and so fast, and so much-

I keep drinking. Half a bottle. Two thirds. I’m so close to something else now, but I can’t remember what it is.

Almost as soon as my phone is fully on, it twitches in my hand with a message I would’ve received last night if... if I’d stayed on.

‘Marcel: yea, I’m ok, thanks – out of A&E, at least! A bit bruised, and my arm’s broken, but mostly I just want to curl up in bed and watch Studio Ghibli films, you know? Sadly I don’t have any of them on DVD. I tried watching West Wing but apparently I had quite bad concussion and I couldn’t think straight enough to follow it. :) Please come and see me – if you want to. I’d love that x’

I drop the wine bottle. I just drop it, just like that. And it’s gone. Everything’s gone and only I am left behind.

Oh God, Marcel, what was I thinking.

I stand amidst the glittering broken glass and the bleeding wine and the dark and the cold and I shake. I’m so afraid of myself. In my best moments I am lucid enough to be terrified by this. That’s always how I know I’m really awake. Because my half-lidded moments look like monsters in the glaring light of the full truth. That’s what I really am, most of the time. I am a monster. I am seldom more than a hunger, and there’s nothing so fiercely all-consuming.

I resolve that Harry cannot see this. I will never be this before him. He will never see the monster, because he will never love the monster, and so he will never know the monster.

But these boys. Oh God, these boys. They break my life.

Oh God I want to kill myself. Oh God.

It’s six in the morning is there no one I can call is there really no one Alison will be asleep. Oh God, why do I never sleep. Why don’t I take the easy way out. Oh God there’s broken glass everywhere why didn’t I turn on a light it’s so dark it is so dark and so early what am I doing what am I doing how do I do this I want to die please God just let me die.

I see horrific things, stood for so long in a single spot. I see myself scrambling on my hands and knees and slamming my hands down repeatedly onto the already bleeding floor. My ankles give way and my wrists snap when I hit the floor, and my head shatters like the wine bottle. I slam my head repeatedly onto the ground. I crumple in a heap and long swords of glass impale me and the blood oozes out of every wound and drapes over me like a shroud. The wine rises toward me and becomes blood and glass and I open my mouth and I drink it right out of the air. I can’t tell what the difference between seeing these things and feeling these things is anymore.

I stand completely frozen and the alcohol in my system drags me back under the surface of the ocean like a current, but now that I’m awake I’m aware I’m drowning, and it’s the worst feeling in the world. I’m so scared of myself I have never been so scared of myself someone help me please oh my God please no no one can see this and I can’t clean this all up on my own oh my God mum come back. Please come back. Please, mummy, please.

I’m not even really certain I’m actually throwing up until I choke a little afterwards on the bitter acid, and then the smell hits me. Oh God. Oh God oh God. Get out. Get out. I have to get out.

I want to leave my head and get far, far away from here. Pain always did that for me, but I can’t do that now. I can’t do that now. I feel vile. There’s stomach acid and vomit dribbling through my nose and out of the corners of my mouth.

Get out. I must get out. I head for the bathroom. I take quick and ginger steps across the floor but God is mocking me. Despite my good intentions I get glass in my foot, and it hurts so much and it bleeds so much that I start to cry. I have never been so pitiful. I am too weak to feel anything stronger or more damaging than pity. I am too damaged a vessel to even hold the usual undirected hatred; it runs right through me and out of every crack, leaving me rinsed and empty.

“Dammit, Diana,” I whisper to myself. I try not whimper too much. It sounds hollow in the empty dark house. 

I sit fully clothed in the shower for nearly an hour, picking the glass out of my foot, my phone on the floor next to the razor. I will have to walk out of here with one and not the other.

When I get out I feel a little bit better and I strip off my clothes, looking at my phone and my razor, side by side. I had been going to just walk out of the house as I was, dripping, and a sodding mess, but instead, I methodically pull out the bandages and bind my feet. Then it gets simpler to put on some jeans and a hoodie and comb my hair and pull it into a ponytail. I never comb my hair. It’s always perfectly straight as it is.

I go to my room and pick up a few things, and I then brush my teeth rigorously and I put some shoes on, and all the while I’m counting my breaths, and when I walk out of the bathroom, I grab my phone and not the razor, and when I walk out of the house, I ignore the mess. I ignore it all. The triumph is small. But then, triumph here always is.

I head straight to the Styles’ house. By the time I get there it’s nearly nine o’clock in the morning.

Anne answers the door.

“Hey, sweetie!” I can’t reply. I just hug her.

She’s just showered too. She’s completely clean. I cling to her and breathe in what it’s like to be fresh and new. She doesn’t say anything about the fact that I’m here and not at school. She tells me both the boys are home as well. I’m glad: I’ve arrived home and my family are in.

She points me towards Marcel’s room, saying she’s already checked on him once, earlier this morning, and I could take him breakfast. She hands me the breakfast tray like I deserve to be carrying it, and like I wasn’t puking my drunken guts up and smashing wine bottles all over my own kitchen floor while she was showering and caring for her sons.

Nobody’s going to be back in the house before I am, so I’m not worried about my mum finding the mess. It’ll all still be waiting for me when I go back, I’m sure.

Harry’s door is shut. I realise my chest still hurts. Yesterday was an age ago. What a long time for a chest to be hurting.

I ignore it.

I tap on Marcel’s door with my toe, gently.

“Come in. Thanks, m- oh! Diana!” He croaks my name in a delighted sort of way. There are fairy lights on and I somehow manage to keep hold of the tray as I take in the horrific bruises that run up the side of his face. He looks puffy and pale and disproportionate, like one eye doesn’t match the other, and his arm’s in a sling. He has on what I’m pretty sure is one of Harry’s band T-shirts and his hair looks really clean and uncombed. But there’s a tiredness about him which hits me which an aching familiarity. This is what it looks like when you slip a little, and can’t do anything about the world, and are resigned to having no handholds, nothing. Like deep, silent, unreachable, empty, outer space. Like the only light in the house is the open fridge, and all you can see is the wine. I’m going to be sick again. I think I’m still slightly drunk.

“Oh God, Marcel,” I murmur, trying not to slur my words. I sit down on his bed, sliding his tray onto a stool next to him. He smiles at me and everything about the action looks painful. His entire right cheek is purple. I still feel like I’m drowning. “Oh my God…”

He sighs heavily. “Please, don’t. I’ve had so much of that-“

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right. Sorry.” We smile a little at each other, and oh God I feel so much more alive. It’s incredibly painful. Guilt racks me. Maybe I’d rather be dead anyway. Maybe this is too high a price to pay. “Sorry, sorry, Marcel-“ I sway slightly, and slowly put my hands up to my face.

“D… are you okay?” I don’t reply. He puts a hand on my shoulder.

“No, no- don’t- I’ll start crying. I’ll start…” I press my palms to my face a little. I can feel this illness beneath my lungs. I don’t know whether it’s the slushiness from the wine or the intense fear.

“Diana…” I look up at him for a moment, and we share something abrupt and horrible. I can see the razor blade on the bathroom tiles and alcohol all over the kitchen floor and the knife wrapped into my jumper reflected in his eyes. I can see the sterile walls of hospitals and the dull dread and the thumping pain. “I’ll be okay if you’re okay.” There’s a blank finality in his deal, like a suicide pact.

“Don’t put that on me. I’m never okay,” I shoot back at him, tripping only slightly on the words. His expression doesn’t change.

“I know.” He does. He does know. He isn’t like my mum. He knows.

“Oh, Marcel,” I crawl up to him and hug him, as much for my own benefit as his. I sit by him and hold him for a while, and, yes, we both cry. I don’t realise I’m whispering the words “you’re safe, you’re safe, you’re safe”, until he repeats them back at me. 

And everything smells light and fresh and clean and well taken care of and everything in this room is directed towards healing. It might not be working entirely, but a dark shadow falls away from inside me a little bit. So much of me is screaming that we’re not safe – we’re never safe – but there’s a small voice that says, if we’re never safe, and we are never going to be, then surely this will do for now? 

I think that maybe it will. I think maybe little triumphs are all we need today. Tiny ones. Like the brushing of teeth. Or the eating of a bowl of cereal. Or a hug.

I pull away after a dizzying moment; somehow, maybe, we can manage to pull down the rest of the world. After all, it’s just us now, in this house, and maybe we can leave all our baggage at the door. Nothing else exists. Not for now. We can be safe here. “I’m, uh,” I duck my head. “I’m sorry for the break down, I’m a little… I’m just glad you’re here.”

He tilts his head. “I was going to say the same about you.” We laugh softly, shaking with something delicate. Something which is turning everything off – unreceptive and ignorant of all but the security of the present. It’s so familiar, laughing with Marcel. We may be blinding ourselves, but this is what survival looks like. We don’t have to know either – not if we can forget.

“We...” how do I say this to him. “We’re safe here. Right now. That’s all that matters for the moment.” He swallows a little bit and bows his head in agreement, before reaching over and picking up his toast. “So!” I say brightly, and I’m starting to feel more 'brightly' actually. This is not going to be okay, but I am going to be okay today. For Marcel and Harry’s sake, I am going to be okay. I have to be. 

“So?”

My head’s hazy and my eyes hurt and everything’s a little loud – this is not a fun kind of drunk. But I can forget about that. “So,” I wink at him and pull five DVDs out of my bag. “Studio Ghilbi films. Where d’you wanna start?”

He drops his toast and stares. “Oh my God, D,” he says softly. “Oh my God, THANK YOU!” He leans forwards and hugs me. And if I lose a few more tears, then some more shadows go with them, because I feel lighter than ever. He genuinely and carelessly smiles as he chooses a film and sets it up on his laptop, like he couldn’t be happier. I couldn’t be happier. This is a tightrope act that will be short lived and difficult to follow: beautiful in the way that tragedies are beautiful, and memorable like the venerated dead.

We start with Howl’s Moving Castle, which is Marcel’s favourite. Mine is My Neighbour Totoro, so we watch that one next.

Anne comes up and chats with us for a few minutes, making sure Marcel’s comfortable and insisting on making us ridiculous amounts of popcorn. She also cleans some of his cuts and changes his bandages and it makes my chest hurt really badly, watching her change his bandages. Marcel reaches for my hand and squeezes my fingers. I meet his eyes and I swear I don’t deserve even a glimpse of the sympathy and love I find in them.

But I guess that’s how friendship works. You can hate yourself or you can love yourself, but there isn’t room enough for both in other people. I’ve always hated some things about myself, but I’m developing a new one right now: helplessness. Studio Ghibli films won’t always be enough.

They are for the moment, though, and that's okay.

Harry doesn’t wake up until lunchtime. We hear Anne coming up the stairs and pause Spirited Away, which is getting a bit grim anyway, in the hope of food. Which means we hear her wake up Harry.

“Harry, darling, can I come in?”

“UuuuUUUUGH GO AWAY MUM, I don’t want to do today. I feel like poo.”

“Excuse your manners, young man. Here, I brought you a kind of brunch-type thing...”

“What time is it? Aw, mum, you’re the best.” Marcel smiles a little at the sound of Harry talking with his mouth full, as ever. I nearly smile. “How’s Marcel?”

“He’s okay, darling. You should know Diana’s here. Lovely thing-“ Marcel nudges me, smiling. I blush but my stomach is dropping: Harry. Guilt is worse than alcohol when it comes to feeling drowned. My eyes prick like I’m vomiting again. “She brought those Japanese movies that Marcel likes. They’re watching them in his room now- okay, honey- Harry- you might wanna get dressed before you go barging in there. C’mon, I’ll carry your food for you-”

She’s barely finished talking when Marcel’s bedroom door clatters open and a tired-looking Harry bumbles in. 

I kinda have half a laptop and a bowl of popcorn and a duvet on my lap, so I can’t exactly leap up and hug him, but his tired face makes me ache. God, hurting for other people is a lot more painful - but a lot easier to cope with - than hurting myself. He grins when he sees us. “Heyyyyy, look at you. My two favourite people ever. Except for you, mum. You bring me food – you’re definitely my favourite person...” I bury my face in my hands and laugh, embarrassed. Harry’s taking his food from Anne and hugging her and then he turns back to us just as Marcel’s muttering to me:

“D’you reckon he’ll like Howl’s Moving Castle? I can see him identifying with Turnip-head...” I burst out laughing. It’s too loud and the alcohol in my system is making me giddy in a really, really bad way – like the aftermath of hyperventilation has been stretched out infinitely, liquidised, and put into bottles for the consumption of the general public.

“What? Hey, can I join you?” The joke goes right over his head, but Marcel smiles softly as Harry hugs him and then clambers in beside me, because Marcel’s tucked right in the corner with the cushions and the headboard. I’m thrilled and abashed when Harry takes my hand, like it’s automatic. I can't help the shame that makes me hesitate. The bone deep conviction that I don't deserve this. That I don't deserve Harry or Marcel, warmth or love or kindness. And yet, here they are, giving it to me anyway. because they don't know the monster.

Taking deep breaths and ignoring everything, I allow myself to tuck myself up next to Harry, miraculously somehow feeling safe again, despite the raging storms. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t seem to be swaying and trembling like the rest of the room – he’s an anchor. Like, a literal unmoving point in a steadily undulating reality. I feel a little less like throwing up now that I am next to him. And a little less like a monster. He kisses each of my fingertips individually and I wonder at how light it makes me feel. And not in a drunk way. How can something so trivial and small dispel so much darkness?

But then, most triumphs are small. Maybe Marcel and I aren’t the only ones who have decided that, for today, we’re ignoring all the shit.

We watch Howl’s Moving Castle again. I feel so much better that, instead of throwing up or passing out, I actually fall asleep for a while. Waking up sandwiched between Harry and Marcel, tucked in with cushions all over the place – not to mention the stray popcorn kernels – and my head on Harry’s shoulder, has got to be one of the most peaceful moments of my life. It feels life-giving to be here, safe, sound. Only Harry could ever convince me, just by being himself, that I should allow myself to be safe. 

That I should leave myself alone. Just for now.

Obviously it can’t last. Marcel’s exhausted by about half 5 and when he falls sound asleep in the middle of Arrietty, Harry and I glance at each other, then quietly pack the things away.

It’s harder than I thought it would be to do things. Triumphs may be small, but that doesn’t make them easier. That’s why they’re triumphs. I try not to worry about what going back to my house is going to be like.

As we creep out of Marcel’s room hand in hand, turn out the lights and shut the door, I also think a lot about the fact that Harry likes me. He probably couldn’t love the monster, but he doesn’t have to: when I’m with Harry, I’m a little less monstrous, I think. A little less. He heals me. Just a little bit.

Or, at least, my chest has stopped hurting. Can’t quite tell about my head yet.

We just lie quietly together on his bed. I’m curled up next to him like a cat, my head on his chest, just listening to him breathe. 

The only thing we say to each other in a whole hour is when Harry says:

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For coming and finding me yesterday. I was... pretty lost, I guess you could say.”

There’s a pause.

“Thank YOU,” I reply.

He smiles. I can hear it in his tone. “For what?”

“For picking me up and holding me once you'd found me. I was pretty lost, too, I guess you could say...”

Then there are years and years of silence.

“I’m not okay, you know.”

“No, me neither.”

When I go home that evening I turn all the lights on, find an old portable CD player and my head-phones, and I clean like mad. It takes me about two and a half of Harry’s mix CDs to get the kitchen looking how it normally does. I cut my hands a couple times and every time it makes me cry and brings me perilously close to a panic attack. Even when I’m done and I’ve scrubbed the floor so hard my elbows ache, the room still reeks. I run and get some Yankee candles from my mum’s room and light them, placing them on our little table and on the counter.

And then I stand and think about what I’ve done.

I’ve bruised myself deeply. You can’t clean up a bruise. You can try, and on days like this one, when doing stuff is hard, trying might be reason enough to be proud. Might be a triumph in itself. And God knows I’m proud of myself for this. So proud that it almost balances out my shame and horror. Almost.

Standing in pretty much the same spot as I had been before dawn, I have another little triumph. I ring Alison.

“Hey, Diana.”

“Hey. Alison.”

“You okay? You sound a bit…”

“I am - a bit.”

"Okay, hon, talk to me.”

“No, no, I haven’t hurt… myself…” That’s a lie. She waits for me patiently, and I take a deep breath and plunge myself into the shockingly cold truth. It’s difficult to speak it, but the candlelight makes gentler patterns around me in the dark than my imagination had, and somehow that’s comforting. 

“I’ve like, completely destroyed myself, Alison. I don’t think there’s any way I can’t count this as a failure. God, I’m so sorry, Ali. I’ve failed. I ruined myself. I may not have done it with razors and- and blood, but I ripped myself up in exactly the same way, and the worst part is that it doesn’t even just affect me anymore. Now suddenly it’s selfish. I can’t get over my own- my own selfishness…” I cry to her a little bit as I talk about it, and it doesn’t help, but it makes me think it helps, so that’s good.

“You haven’t let me down, you know. You never let me down,” she says after I’m done.

I think about that for a moment. “I think I’m starting to know what you mean. Like, even if Marcel had- y’know... like, me and Harry, we wouldn’t feel let down about it, we love him that much…” God, Alison, what did I ever do to deserve you.

“Exactly. Diana, honey, you haven’t let anybody down. In fact, I am incredibly impressed that you found the strength to come home and deal with it. Well done for that.”

“I had to, Alison. There’s nobody else who can see this. I couldn’t – I couldn’t let anybody- I had to-“

“Shh, shh, s’okay. You’re okay. Keep breathing, Diana, breathe with me. One… Two… One… Two…” She counts along with my breathing and it’s like a life support machine, keeping me among the living. While she’s counting, I don’t have to do anything to be alive.

Eventually I tell her that I’m okay and should probably get off the phone. She refuses to let me go until she’s sure I’m going to be okay. I can hardly believe she’s even asked.

“I’m never, ever going to be okay, Alison.”

“Diana, d’you remember what you said to me? Years and years ago? I think it was back when you were assuring me that you wanted to keep trying to keep your promise. You said ‘I know I can do it, because it’s not like I’m promising I’ll be okay – I’m just promising that I’ll refuse to believe I can’t be okay, and I think I can do that.’” I’m completely silent. “Diana, it’s like – the miracle isn’t in 2000 tries and then a lightbulb. The miracle is-“

“-The miracle is in believing that 2000 tries and then a lightbulb is inspiring enough to keep inventing. Yeah…” she’s said this to me before, but I’d forgotten about it. I hold it in my mind, though, even when I get off the phone.

I will not be okay – but I will be persistent in pursuing the principle of trying. An elusive success is not nearly as desirable as the attitude that it’s worth working for one anyway. Sometimes the perfected finished product doesn’t exist, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t aim for it. And I’ll be damned if I’m not going to hold myself together for their sake. For Marcel’s sake, for Harry’s sake. For the sake of Alison and Eleanor and my mum and Niall and Louis and maybe even Zayn, I will try to be okay, and that IS okay.

My mum comes home a little after eight o’clock, as per usual, and remarks on how nice the house smells. She doesn’t know anything. I ask her about work, and we chat a little bit, and she asks me about school, and we chat a little bit more.

There’s a kind of an awkward pause, and then she asks me if I’d like to watch Pride and Prejudice with her. Again. I smile and say I’d like that.

I don’t tell her. I never tell her.

Aside from Alison, I don’t tell anybody; not this time. And, aside from Alison, I never will.


	10. Pawn Storm

I do go to school the next day. And the day after that. And then the day after that, Harry comes back too. Marcel doesn’t come back for weeks, and lunchtimes are lonely and disorientating.

I spend them with Harry. He’s as quiet as I am, but at least I’m not on my own. And neither is he. Neither of us are coping very well: the school has almost moved on too fast, and it transpires that all that the majority of school really knows is that Marcel and Leeroy were dating. The whole schkboodle about the two of them getting beaten up never really got aired – possibly because Brendon has been curiously absent since that first day of school.

I find myself staring at Liam whenever he’s in the same room, wondering if he has, in fact, pushed Brendon off a bridge, or something. The guy looks pale. He sticks with Zayn a lot and doesn’t say anything much to anyone.

Which is when I remember with a start what I read on Zayn’s phone: Leeroy is in hospital. A new worry stabs at my heart, all of a sudden. Truthfully I never really had much of a gage on the dynamic of Marcel and Leeroy’s relationship, but Marcel hasn’t mentioned him since… since that day.

I’m anxious to get all the facts, and it’s a weird kind of anxious: the epicentre of the feeling is centred on people who are not myself, and so it’s more of a pull than a sinking inside me – more like standing in the face of a slow explosion than suffering a steady implosion. It’s worse and it’s better, again. Compared to the monster I objectively consider myself to be, that’s what other people are: worse and better. All at once. 

I resolve one day to speak to Zayn. After all, he had said… if I needed anything – anything at all.

That doesn’t mean I’m not pants-wettingly nervous about approaching him, though. Particularly as Niall made the mistake the other day of mentioning Liam in front of Harry; Harry had stood up abruptly, knocking over his chair, and, breathing through his teeth, fists balled, he’d stormed out of the lunch hall. Louis had risen immediately to follow him, muttering. “Don’t worry, guys – he wouldn’t hit his friends – not so sure about his enemies…”

Or people he considers his enemies. I’m not sure that Harry really thinks that of Liam. I’m not really sure what anybody thinks of Liam. I know I have no idea.

But wary of how unhappy Harry is, I keep my digging low-key and take it to Niall one week in guitar group.

Everyone is a bit subdued, so we’re playing the Guns ‘N’ Roses’ song ‘November Rain’ today: Niall and Luke have been working on an acoustic guitar arrangement.

I sidle up to Niall and give him meaningful looks until he gets the message and steps down for about as long he can bear from the centre of attention.

“Hey, D, you okay?”

“Uh, can I have Zayn’s mobile number?” He blinks at me. This wasn’t what he was expecting. “I’m, ah, depending on your discretion here, ‘kay, Niall?”

“Yeah! Yeah, ‘course. I mean, uh, I’da thought you’d be just as pissed off as Harry at Zayn. And Liam.”

I raise my eyebrows. “D’you really think they’re quite as guilty as Harry seems to think they are?”

He looks at me for a long moment. I’ve never seen him look so serious. Slowly he shakes his head. “No. I mean… At least… not Zayn.”

“Yeah. At least not Zayn. D’you know Leeroy’s in hospital?” I know he does – I read it in his text conversation with Zayn.

“Uh.. yes. Yes, I do. But we decided – uh, me and Zayn – not to tell Harry. He doesn’t really tend to do well when things aren’t, like, clearly cut into good and bad, and I think anything to do with Liam simply isn’t a good idea for him right now…” he bites his lip.

I nod. “Yeah, I agree. Marcel should know though-“

“Oh my God, yes. I didn’t think of that…” he looks away from me. He looks lost without his usual sunshine. Him and Zayn, the sun and the moon: Niall oversees every day to day activity beaming, while Zayn is there in the darker moments, quietly illuminating the things in shadow and clearing a path through some of the mystery without making any of it less mysterious.

Niall gives me both his and Zayn’s number and we agree not to mention anything to Harry. I tell myself it’s not secrecy, it’s care.

You can tell yourself all sorts of lies.

I text Zayn that evening.

‘Hey, Zayn, it’s Diana. Niall gave me your number. sorry to bother you – i was just wondering if you know anything about Leeroy? i have no other way of getting in contact with him and im just a bit worried. thanks x’

He replies as my soup is revolving in the microwave.

Z: ‘hey! yea he’s not so good. he woke up the other day, though, so that’s good. and it’s no problem don’t worry x’

I stare at my phone. I forget about my soup and sink to the floor. The following conversation shakes loose some of my suspicions, solidifies some of my fears, and clears many misconceptions for me.

‘-was he in a coma??!? i knew he was in hospital, but… x’

Z: ‘no i don’t think it was a coma he was just unconscious 4 a few days. liam was really worried. how is marcel btw? leeroy didn’t even no about marcel getting hurt when he woke up. ur not the only 1 who doesnt have any contact x’

‘hes mentally and physically and royally screwed up. harry too. and marcel didn’t mention anything about leeroy im so sorry x’

Z: ‘i don’t think they were together when it happened. like in both ways. leeroy said they actually broke up first and then he went off and got ambushed by ashton and people. jsyk it wasn’t actually us who did this. brendon and ashton planned it to get at leeroy for som sick reason. i don’t know what were still trying 2 get 2 the bottom of it. liams rly worried they did it bc of him - theyd heard liam complaing about leeroy b4 – but not bc he was gay!!!! i guess it was some horrible misunderstanding. anyway now everyone thinks liams some kind of homophobe but hes actually having a pretty tough time too x’

Z: ‘D? you okay? sorry i did just kinda offload. reply or il worry about u x’

‘yeah sorry jst kinda shocked - i don’t think marcel knows about leeroy. and yea I know it wasn’t u guys x’

Z: ‘shit im so sorry. and thanks. does harry know tho? weve been deliberately avoiding him. liam rly wanted to talk to him but we thought that probs wasn’t a very good idea x’

‘yea that wouldn’t be a good idea. Harrys running on a pretty short fuse rn. ok i might tell marcel about leeroy. is that okay? x’

Z: definitly x

‘ok im gonna go now. thank u so much Zayn for talking to me x’

Z: hey no problem. hope u and harry and marcel and every1 are all ok x

‘not really, but coping. thanks again x’

Z: ‘anytime :) x’

I don’t reply after that.

I stare at the floor for a while. I wonder what this will do to Marcel. He’ll probably blame himself: survivor’s guilt. For sure, Leeroy isn’t dead, but Marcel’s going to think he got off easy after he hears.

I sigh heavily. It’s no wonder Liam’s been so desperate to talk to Harry: the rumours around school mostly centre around the gay couple and the anti-gay relatives involved. Even Harry has been implicated to a certain degree, which makes me furious.

In fact, the very next day, despite all my regulated reasonings and application to being the most helpful and supportive friend and girlfriend I can be, my inner flame of righteous indignation gets fanned into a full blown fire of fury by an unfortunate wind of gossip.

I’m standing in the dinner queue with Niall, Luke, and Calum. The others are upstairs waiting for us, and I’m preoccupied with worrying about what I’m going to say tonight to Marcel when I go over. More specifically, if there’s any way I can have a discussion with Marcel about Leeroy without Harry in the room.

I then realise that the names in my head are being echoed by the people behind me. They’re younger, shorter than me - some boys in the lower school.

“Oh my God though I heard that he like can’t stand gays though and Harry just made his little brother go out with this guy so that everyone would know Payne had a faggot for a cousin.”

“Yeah, apparently Payne’s proper homophobic and like, decks anyone who even mentions the fag-“ they all snigger.

I feel rigid, like quickly setting concrete. It’s a strange feeling, being angry at someone other than me. And it also leaves me completely free to cause pain.

I’m so unused to the sensation of being able to let rip my emotions without breaking promises to anyone that I turn around with a slightly manic intention.

One of them is saying “Harry’s brother’s a fucking weirdo, though. Like, there’s something seriously perverted about a guy who uses his gay to get at his brother’s rivals-“ 

I’m hardly seeing straight, but I see the look he gives me before I drop my bag and slap the bejeezus out of him.

The guy reels, probably more in shock than pain. He’s about the same height as me, but completely taken by surprise. I am shaking with rage and hatred, and it’s so much stronger than anything I’ve ever felt for myself. Maybe because it has a vent, and it’s now left to flow, unrestrained and uncontrollable, out of me.

They’ve all started shouting and I’m snarling back at them. One of them goes to shove me, which is when I suddenly realise that I may’ve started something that’s slightly above my head, but someone grabs me and pulls me out of the way. My hand is stinging. Niall has jumped in front of me and is telling the boys to scram.

“D! D, oh my God what the hell did you just do?”

“Are you okay? What happened?”

I wince a little bit as I wiggle my fingers. I’m still seeing red. “Yeah, I’m fine. Hey, thanks Niall.” He turns around and gives me this awed look.

“DIANA! My God, you just- you just WHACKED him!” He looks almost reverential. Calum laughs. I’m not really listening. The other boys' words are sticking to me like a rotten memory.

God, that makes me so fucking angry. People know nothing. I feel positively venomous, actually. It’s quite frightening. I am larger than life. Inflated. Bloated. Boiling. I think I’m getting the point of the phrase ‘need to let off steam’.

Perhaps that would’ve been it: I would’ve calmed down before the end of lunchtime, and everything would’ve been fine, but – and God knows why – some kids just want to watch themselves burn.

I don’t know if they went deliberately out of their way to provoke me – maybe they thought they could humiliate me, or maybe they were just angry that I’d humiliated one of them. Whatever the reason, the same couple boys and then some are kind of lurking as we leave the dinner counter. The one I slapped – I!! Slapped!! Someone!! Okay!! Wow!! – sidles up to me and I stop dead still when I see him.

My chest tightens and I breathe quickly, afraid of some kind of violent retaliation from him. From him. Ha.

“What you even hit me for?” He says coldly, getting right up in my face. “D’you even KNOW the kid? The Styles kid?” I close my eyes and grip my tray tightly.

Go. Leave. Leave me alone. Go right now or so help me I will smack you into next week. I open my eyes and try my best to glare, but the panic is starting to overcome the anger. The guy helpfully helps me refocus on the rage.

“Well he was a proper freak. He should do everyone a favour and slit his wrists in a bathtu-“

If he’d said that to me – about me – I’d’ve collapsed on the spot, but love’s a funny thing. There’s absolutely no way I could take this guy in a fight, and it’s not like I don’t know that, but I’ve smashed my tray over his head before I really think about it and before there’s even time for his friends to be shocked, I’m kicking him, over and over again, my Doc Martens lending my stick-legs some hefty swing. I start to lose my grip on reality as panic and adrenaline and fury boil through me.

People are grabbing at me and I’m fighting back tooth and nail. I’m not even sure I’m fully touching the ground at some points, or who’s on what side, or whether I should be attacking the teachers too or whether they’re here to help me or-

In a way, this anger is just like a panic attack – all encompassing and intense and dreadful. I don’t come back down until maybe forty-five minutes later when I’m sat outside the head’s office with my head in my hands. I’ve already had my talk with him, which turned the anger into actual panic, as opposed to something which just feels quite similar. Now I’m just waiting to go home. I say I’ve had my 'talk' with him: he did the talking. Well, the shouting. I mostly just hyperventilated on his office floor.

I feel exhausted and confused, but somehow Marcel keeps me anchored. It was for Marcel. And Harry. It was for something and someone who matters. That makes it better.

Someone approaches me. I look up. It’s Harry. He has this curious look on his face – it’s somewhere between pride and shock.

“Hey, you okay? Niall told me what happened – quite gleefully, actually...” He crouches next to me and puts a hand on my knee. I groan into my shirt cuffs. “He said you were quite the fighter. I think he’s impressed,” Harry chuckles, then breaks off like he’s worried that might be an inappropriate reaction.

I look up and smile at him ruefully. “They were saying some horrible things. Some… really, really horrible things- Oh God,”

“Hey, shh, it’s okay. You’re okay.” He reaches over and hugs me tightly. Then he kisses me. His hands linger on my face, thumb stroking my cheek gently. “You going home now, or what?”

“Yeah, not so much. They rang my mum but she can’t come home early, so they told me to just sit here until school ends. I’m not excluded or anything. I… uh, I kind of had a, maybe a mild kind of breakdown while I was in the head’s office... Which was horrible. But I think he doesn’t blame me as much as he might otherwise have done…” I laugh feebly. Harry bites his lip.

“You’re having panic attacks again, aren’t you?”

I look at him. His gaze is so sincere and warm that it pulls me in and my head clears. It’s feels like the first thing I’ve been really able to focus upon in weeks, like his eyes are cutting through all my fear and confusion and exhaustion and turmoil and providing a path. And it’s one I will follow with all my heart.

I nod.

“Oh D, I’m so sorry.” He buries his head in my shoulder and hugs me again. “I remember you saying you haven’t had a panic attack in ages, but now… with all the crap that’s going on… I’m honestly not surprised.”

“It’s okay. Today was… well, today was weird. Like, it wasn’t a normal ‘oh my God someone get me out of here I can’t breathe’ kind of panic attack, y’know? I think I was more panicking because I was so angry, and my body didn’t know how else to react to so much unfamiliar emotion. Let alone my brain.”

“I don’t blame you. I get so angry sometimes I just…” he stares off, shaking his head. There’s a wilderness in there that I recognise. Maybe we can trawl through it together. I put a hand on his cheek and make him look at me.

“Sorry... I don’t have anything to say, I just wanted to look at you,” I murmur. He smiles.

“I love you, D. Wow, okay, not necessarily in that way – I mean, yes - completely in that way, but – y’know, I just - I love you. I just do.” He grins at his own stupidity and I laugh a little breathlessly, then kiss him again.

The safest kind of dark I’ve ever found is this peaceful little place I go when I kiss him. Of course, I’ve never kissed anyone else, so I don’t necessarily know if it’s anything comparable, but I’d like to think not. It’s like, the closeness of his face and his body to mine blocks out all the artificial light, and he provides his own kind of life-force. Here it’s safe and here it’s warm, and it’s wonderful. I want to stay here forever.

Eventually I think to ask him if he’s currently missing a lesson.

“Nope, in a free.”

“Ah.”

“Hey, D, are you okay?”

“Uh, yeah! Why?”

He looks at me contemplatively, and I think he works out pretty quickly that the longer he looks at me, the worse I’m going to appear. 

I bite the bullet, cringing. “Um, Harry, no. Really… why the hell would I be okay?”

His eyes go wide all of a sudden and he pushes his beautiful curly hair out of his eyes a little bit. He takes a firm hold of my wrists and looks me in the eye. “You’re not… you’re not – are you??”

“NO! No, sorry, no I’m not.” I laugh nervously. “I’m really not. Don’t worry.”

He sighs heavily and his head falls forward onto our joined hands. I can feel him breathing. He’s sitting on the floor in front of my chair and I end up running my hands through his hair while he rests his head on my knees, staring down the corridor.

“D’you wanna come back to ours after school?”

“Yeah, okay.”

Long silence while the sun begins its early winter sunset.

“Harry,” his hair is soft and warm around my fingers and I think his eyes are closed.

“Mm?”

“Never mind.”

“M’kay.”

I’d been going to ask him if he knew about Leeroy, but it’s so peaceful here that I don’t want to drop so much as a single disruptive molecule onto the still water’s surface.

I do go home with him. We stand outside in the frosty air hand in hand as we wait for the car to pull up and take us away.

Marcel’s in a quiet mood. It’s like it’s difficult to reach him and I can see that it scares Harry a little bit. It mostly just kind of breaks my heart, though. I try to imagine how Marcel must be feeling, and just end up hugging him a lot. The four of us eat dinner quietly and reservedly, and Harry holds my hand for almost every second until I leave.

I don’t tell Marcel about Leeroy. I can’t bring myself to. I’m so saddened by his state that even my mum’s anger and confusion, which would’ve been difficult for me to deal with otherwise, feels far away and irrelevant to me.

I’m honestly finding it difficult to care about myself further than I am needed by Marcel and Harry. They have become my anchor. My safe ground, even when they aren’t close by my side: they are my reason and my order.

I call Harry while I’m lying in bed, because he’s asked me to: he was worried about me talking with my mum. Something about the way he has room in his heart to think of me and all my little troubles – in the midst of all of this – makes me want to both cry and stand on the top of a mountain and sing at the top of my lungs. And I don’t think I’ve ever sung anything in my life.

“Hey! D, you okay?”

I smile up at my ceiling, somewhere above me in the warm darkness. “Yeah, actually. She was pretty pissed about me getting into a fight, but I assured her that it was more of a violent panic attack than anything else. That the victims were just collateral damage, and all that.”

“I thought your mum didn’t know about the panic attacks?”

“Uh, yeah, she does. Um, it was… the other stuff that she doesn’t know. And also I don’t think she ever really got the extent of them, either. But no – she gets the whole anxiety thing. She’s quite like that herself. Y’know, nervous around people…”

There’s an amicable pause, before Harry laughs at something.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just- you. In a fight.” He chuckles a little louder. I grin.

“I know, right. What’ve you done to me: it’s like I’ve got confidence or something.”

We laugh.

We chat for a bit, but I can tell he’s worried about Marcel. I ask him about it and he sighs. The phone crackles.

“He’s not himself. And I can’t even look at him for longer than a few minutes without wanting to, like, I dunno, cry, or start smashing things.” I know what he means; Marcel’s face is so bruised that just looking at it breaks my heart.

“When is he planning on coming back to school? I know earlier he was worrying about missing schoolwork...”

“Uchk, that is SO Marcel. Yeah, I dunno. I told mum he should be home-schooled for a bit and you should’ve seen the way he scowled at me. Plus mum doesn’t really have the time. I mean, I would do it – I’d do anything – but-“

“-Harry,”

“I KNOW! Good GRIEF, I KNOW! I know there’s nothing I can do, D, it’s killing me. I can’t- I can’t just sit here and watch him disintegrate into this lonely, half-dead... like – he’s not okay and I don’t know what to do about it – I don’t know what to do...”

Harry’s crying on the other end of the phone. I put my phone on my face and squidge my eyes tightly shut together. I listen to him.

After a long while, I say quietly. “I know, Harry. There’s nothing I can do either.”

“You could... you could stay on the phone with me?” He asks in a defeated voice.

“Okay...”

“Okay.”

And that’s how I fall asleep, with my phone balanced on my face, enveloped in a gentle static that sometimes rises and falls when one of us sighs.

When I wake up the next morning the call is still going, and my first thought is that the phone bill will be totally worth it: I’d pay much more than standard rates for that kind of peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to Noélie, who is a beautiful and wonderful human being with inspiring strength. You deserve the world <3 xoxoxoxoxox


	11. Mysterious Rook Move

I’m sat playing chess with Marcel at lunchtime and it’s almost normal. If he turns his head I can see the difference between the faded yellow of the old bruises and the remaining grey shadow around his eyes, one of them in particular. His arm is still in a sling, but hopefully not for much longer – it’s been nearly six weeks.

The quietness is the part that really stops it being normal, though. That and the fact that I keep putting him in check. The fourth time he has to move his King out of harm’s way, I say quietly:

“You okay, Marcel?”

“Mm.”

I’m almost too fearful to say anything else to him, until he goes to move his Rook.

“Marcel, stop.” I feel like I’m about to cry.

“What?"

”Don’t… just- don’t go there, okay, please. I thought… I thought you’d’ve noticed…” I’m quaking. I hug my knees and stare at the chess board.

He looks down. “Oh.” He sits back. If he’d moved that piece, I would’ve been able to checkmate him in two moves.

“Marcel, man, you’ve got to talk to me.”

It takes a moment, but then his eyes fill with tears. He doesn’t sob – they just run down his face. I crawl around to hug him, but he pushes me away. I perch on my knees, stomach clenching into a knot. I think I’m going to be sick. I feel panicky.

“I… don’t do that... don’t, please, don’t hug me-“

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t deserve it!” He crumples forwards and puts his head in his hands. I’m frozen: sacred to reach out to him, terrified not to.

Eventually I can’t stand it anymore. I put my arm around him as he shakes. For a moment he resists, then turns and continues his silent meltdown in my arms. I’m completely helpless and I don’t think I’ve ever hated myself more.

He’s whispering something.

“Marcel, what are you saying? I can’t hear you, honey…”

“I… I broke my promise, D. I broke it. I broke- I broke- you can’t- you can’t tell him. He can’t know-”

I want to crawl away and curl up into a ball as soon as I understand what he means, but I can’t. I can’t leave him. He’s nigh hysterical. I squeeze my eyes shut and ball my fists. I swear my skin is screaming at me in empathetic memory. It hurts so much. 

I know this feeling. I know how it feels to fail and I know the triple-fold pain of the bleeding, the guilt and the horror. I’m shaking too. My body feels too thin and too frail to deal with this. I wish I was as steady and sure as the proverbial mountain. 

Then this might be easier to say.

“Marcel… it’s okay. It’s okay to fail-“

“It’s NOT! How is it okay? God, Diana, Leeroy was in HOSPITAL and I go and do this- I can’t do it, Diana. I can’t do it. It will never end. It’s like… it’s like…”

“It’s like hard-lining it towards the finish line, but there is no finish line.” I understand. GOD, but I understand. But I don’t think he’ll understand that there doesn’t need to be.

He nods into my shoulder and he cries and cries and cries.

In a way, this is easier to bear than his silence. Now his manifest grief means something, even if what it means is that I feel sick to my core next time I see Harry.

I can’t say I wasn’t fully expecting this. I have a fairly optimistic way of accepting that all my worst nightmares come true – deepest fears realised, that sort of thing. I’ve always thought that the worst way to be is to fear most deeply the things which you know are bound to happen. I’d rather be afraid of Dragons, or the return of dinosaurs, or something. Marcel has been much more hesitant, the last to speak and the first to leave, ever since I told him about Leeroy. Telling him was one of the hardest moments of my life, but I was comforted when Marcel had put out a shaking hand and thanked me sincerely for telling me. That comfort had worn thin within a few days.

I should’ve known. I should’ve accepted that withdrawn always means what I’m terrified it means. I should’ve trusted my gut instinct in the first place, but even having staved it off with a futile hope, I’m not surprised.

Marcel’s cast on his arm means something different now. It’s almost protection – I want to force him to put one on the other arm, to keep him safe – to wrap my hands around his wrists as Harry had done to me, and never let go – he can’t tear himself up if I’m standing in his way.

There’s no-one standing in his way, though. That’s the problem. That’s the awful bit. Not even Harry was enough, in that one moment of despair. Marcel tries to describe it to me, but he’s almost losing the will to speak, and in the end I stop him. I tell him that I know exactly how it feels. He may not believe that anybody else in the world has ever felt as guilty as he does, but in reality they have. I have.

“Swear you won’t tell Harry.”

“Marcel…”

“God, Diana, you have to SWEAR. I’ll tell him if… if I have to. But he’s bad enough anyway. He’s… it’s not fair- not fair on him-“

“Breathe, Marcel, keep breathing. That’s good…”

He regains some composure, and looks at me. “No. You can’t tell him. You’ve seen him, lately, Diana, he’s not coping. And I will not – I CANNOT make things worse for him. I won’t do it. If he finds out, it’ll be the end of me. C’mon, we have to go to lessons.”

I watch him stand up, then he pushes his glasses up his nose. My heart shatters into a million pieces, and the shards prick into me from the inside out. He’s just Marcel. Just the same Marcel. What right does the world have to do this to him?

I can’t argue with him – well, I could, but there’s no way I’m GOING to argue with him.

Because what he said is true. Harry’s not right. He’s moody and recalcitrant pretty much all the time. When he’s at home or alone with me are the only times when he looks anything but angry. It’s no wonder there are rumours and anticipations of a fight. Sometimes, when I can’t find Harry in a crowd or he doesn’t meet me where he said he would, my panic rises slightly and I start to worry that that nightmare has come true.

Nightmare because I know that Harry would regret it eventually – maybe not immediately – and because I’m fairly sure that nothing could be worse for Marcel. He depends upon Harry’s love, not his anger. Though I am damn near blissfully distracted from my own mental predicament these days, I do find myself staggering a little under the weight of the dread that has settled inside me. I fear Marcel’s current state almost as much as I fear the moment when Harry will surely reach breaking point. Neither of them are okay. Nothing’s fine – I’m torn. I am completely torn. I don’t know who matters more, and so I am caught between them in a terrible web of silence and deceit.

Something funny’s going on with Zayn, too. I get a text from him in the middle of the night at the beginning of February that just says:

‘Dont know if it was actually ashton or brendon ok keep an eye out. stay safe. xxx’

I confront him about it as soon as I can.

“Zayn!”

“Oh, hey, Diana. What’s up,” he looks pale and resigned. There’s something unsettled in the way he distractedly runs his hands through his hair. The movement is usually so suave.

“Uh, you okay?”

“What- yeah. Fine. Look, I gotta go, okay... find Liam...”

“Wait! Zayn, what was that text yesterday about? How did you find out it wasn’t them?” I flinch when he turns a little too quickly back to me. 

He stares at me with something akin to fear. “Just – Liam was in town last night – pretty late – got stuck in with these lads... they, uh, they took credit for, uh, for Marcel and Leeroy. Liam got into a fight. He got pretty badly, uh, smashed up...” ah. That would explain Zayn’s... I dunno – general OFFness.

“Oh God... is he okay?!”

“Yeah, yeah. Not in school today, though. Look, I gotta go...”

Why did he say earlier that he had to go and find Liam if Liam is not, in fact, in school? I watch him jog away and decide to let it go: Zayn had seemed distraught. 

The next day is Thursday and, as has become customary for me, I’m sitting with Eleanor outside watching the guys at football practice. Eleanor doesn’t always stick around to wait with me, but today’s not too cold for her.

While we’re gazing out across the field, there’s not much action to observe. Which means that we both notice pretty quickly the two guys over by the Science block. One of them shoves the other into the wall and the shoved guy pushes him off. They both appear to be shouting vehemently at each other.

I sit up a little, staring. I don’t recognise the one guy, but I think the one against the wall is Zayn. In fact I’m fairly sure it’s Zayn.

“Is that...?”

“Yeah... I think it is...”

“D’you reckon we should help him?” I ask, biting my lip. I’d rather bury myself alive.

“Um... I really don’t think it’s any of our business...” Eleanor leans around me to get a good look at them yelling in each other’s faces. She sounds scared. I don’t blame her.

“God...” breathes Eleanor, as the angry guy with his back to us does that cheesy movie thing where you kind of bluff lunge to punch someone, just to scare them. Zayn ducks, and the other guy walks away a minute later.

He disappears around a corner somewhere. Eleanor watches him go, but Zayn still has my attention. He’s propped up, hands on knees, against the wall, when suddenly he turns around and slams his fist against the building. He stands, leaning on his arm, face hidden from the world.

“Oh my God what even just happened...”

I don’t answer her. We watch as he pushes himself off the wall. He strides away from us to the back gate, pulling out his phone and holding it up to his ear, walking like a fugitive who is obviously desperate not to get picked up by the police.

“D’you think we should mention this... y’know, to Louis and Harry?”

I turn to Eleanor. “Why wouldn’t we?”

“Well why WOULD we? It’s not any of our business...” she bites her lip. “Plus, like, Louis is even more anti-Payne than Harry is. If you wanna know the truth, I think Louis in particular took it really personally when Zayn went off with Liam. I think it still really hurts him. They all miss each other, but I think Louis’s still really bitter.”

I rest my chin on my hands. “God, that one fight really tore everyone apart, didn’t it...”

“You have no idea,” says Eleanor softly. There’s a poignant kind of sadness in her tone. I look at her.

“Need a hug?”

“Thanks,” she smiles at me tearfully and then buries her face in my shoulder for a while. When she resurfaces, she’s immediately talking at a hundred miles per hour. “It really did though, D. Sometimes I just think the whole school would be better off if we’d all just forgive each other and get on again, but it’d take, like, a real, honest-to-God miracle to do that. I mean, like, the immediate aftermath was bad enough – everyone thought Liam was the world’s biggest douchebag and Harry was some kind of semi-crazed madman who’d as soon punch people as talk to them, and it was awful because before that both of them were just really lovely, really popular guys but those labels have really stuck and I remember thinking that things had to get better but actually the long term effects have been even worse, I mean-“ she’s sniffling a little bit “-I thought things were getting better, but now – after Marcel – I don’t know if Harry will ever forgive Liam-“ I dig out a tissue for her “-and I just DON’T see how this can end well!! Thanks-“ she honks loudly into the tissue.

I sigh. “I gotta agree with you, Ells. I keep worrying that sometime soon Harry’s going to push Liam through a wall, just to see if it’d make him feel better.”

“I know what you mean. And that wouldn’t help him. They never shook off their reputations, y’know.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Like, people are still scared of Harry. People still think he’s got this really violent side. I mean, people think that about both of them, but people just think Harry turns into some kind of death-rage beast when he’s angry. And though he CAN be a bit hot-headed, that’s hardly fair. Just like Liam’s reputation isn’t exactly fair either.” She looks so dejected. So hopeless. It’s making me miserable.

“Which one? His reputation as a moron with no morals, or as an extreme workaholic who can get through the Maths homework of an entire A level class in thirty minutes?” My sardonic attempt at humour works and she laughs.

“Ahh it’s true though. He’s always been a bit nutty for school. Never skipped a lesson in his life. Or at least, not back when I knew him...” she tails off into a reverie, and I recall Zayn’s claim that Liam wasn’t in school. The fight. Zayn being threatened with his back against the wall. Somehow I don’t think Liam’s ill, and the thought makes me shudder.

I hardly sleep that night. There’s the taste of something horrible in the back of my mouth as I lie in bed. I get up the next morning hardly prepared for a normal day.

So I guess the irony is all on me, then, when the day turns out to be far, far worse than normal.

Liam passes me in the corridor at the beginning of breaktime as I head to meet Harry further down. My quick glimpse of his face shoots me full of this chilling nausea. He has a split lip and scabs on the lower half of his face, like the blood has only just dried. He also has dark bruises under his eyes, but whether that’s due to physical violence or the terrible expression in his eyes, I couldn’t say. What mostly gets to me though is how grim he looks: it’s an expression which has been moulded by fear.

Indeed there’s some kind of crackling in the school atmosphere – like we’re due for a lightning storm, and only the arrival of the event can relieve the heavy electricity and tension shooting through the air.

Oh God, this is horrible. Liam’s walking like a man condemned to the gallows. I have this premonition that quakes me to my boots. Oh man oh man oh man what is going on.

Much to my eternal horror, I’m too far away to help when it happens, but I see the strangest part in great detail. 

These two guys I vaguely recognise but couldn’t name overtake Liam, and one of them claps a hand on his shoulder in an almost aggressive way, like he’s going to shove him. 

I hear one of them say to him in an evil tone, “what’ve you done now, Payno?” Liam freezes up and stops, stock still, staring at them. The darkness on their faces makes me want to run a thousand miles in the opposite direction.

But then the people in front of us part a little bit and it unfolds in front of me, brilliantly choreographed and horrifyingly well planned.

In front of me is Liam, and at the other end of the corridor is Harry.

In between them is Marcel, barely recognisable, and I barely have time to register the horror and the brand new injuries on his face before one of the guys smacks him towards Liam. Marcel falls, throwing his arms out to catch himself, right at Liam’s feet. Liam’s reaction is exactly what I want to do – he puts his hands over his face and jumps backwards.

-Oh God oh God Marcel oh my God no no no no no no no no no no I can’t move I gotta move I’ve got to move Marcel-

But it’s too late. It’s too late and I’m holding my breath again and I can’t hear a thing but my own roiling stomach and my wheezing and oh God no Harry’s noticed – he’s moving he’s moving I gotta move Harry no stop no this won’t help Marcel no Harry no this won’t help Marcel this won’t help Marcel- Liam’s yelling something and backing away but there are people in the way oh God I can’t get to them in time-

I watch as Harry grabs Liam and lays into him like it’s the only thing he was made for. Rather than being blinded by panic, it makes everything hyper clear – those two evil guys are gone – so many people – I don’t have time to be afraid of crowds now – I have to get to Marcel – Marcel’s gone too – oh no where is he? Okay what do I do what do I do where is Marcel where am I oh God help me-

I start counting my breaths, but I get to twenty eight before I realise I’m just counting. I’m being shoved and crushed by the people around me who are backing away from Harry and Liam. I can’t see either of them there’s so much yelling I can’t see oh my God I need everything to stop I’m being pushed further and further backwards oh my God help me help them help them God help them-

I put my hands over my eyes, clenching my fingers. My fingernails sharply dig into my face, harder and harder, but I’m screaming too much to even know if I’m drawing blood.

I stumble backwards and I’m still counting. My breath is rushing and it feels like none of the oxygen is actually reaching me. Raw primal panic rises up and, flooded with instinct, I flee into an alcove by a storage cupboard. I turn to the wall and cover my ears, my mouth wide open. I can’t even hear my own screaming but my throat feels ripped apart. I try so hard to breathe.

An age later my vision returns – I think it’s only been a few seconds, but I come to my senses horrified and shaking and disorientated. I’m staring down at something, my forehead against the wall. What is it. What is that. It’s a fire alarm. I’m staring at a fire alarm. There are words. What are the words. I’m staring at the words ‘in case of emergency, break glass’.

Well... okay then.

Without much of a pause I smash my fist into the glass. It doesn’t shatter the way I almost hoped it would. I press the alarm with a thumb. The little white area folds neatly backwards in two, like a switch.

There’s a split second of clarity which seems to suspend every chemical in my brain from messing with me, and then the alarm roars through the school.

It works. Every teacher comes out of the woodwork to start shepherding students down the stairs and out of the building. All I can hope is that somehow they’ll get Harry and Liam out. That they’ll get Marcel out and they’ll get me out.

I slump to the floor, breathing heavily. I feel exhausted again. I just set the fire alarm off, disrupting the lives of nearly 1500 people. This is horrible.

It’s an involving kind of horrible though, and when a teacher comes and yells at me to get out of the building, I get to my feet with more strength than I thought I had.

The important thing now is to find Harry and Marcel, and, most of all, get them back to each other. I run down the stairs, jarring my bones.

A strangely illuminating shock has settled over me, and it’s numbing all the noise and leaving me with a very clear train of thought: somebody planned this. Somebody wanted Harry to blame Liam for what had clearly been done to Marcel by someone else. Someone was framing Liam, which means two things: Liam is innocent, and, moreover, they want revenge on him for something.

I’m going to find out what.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahahaha you guys I actually set off my school fire alarm for this fic don't you say I'm not a dedicated writer (kidding) (but not about the fire alarm) xoxoxoxoxox


	12. A Maróczy Bind

I don’t leave the building. The corridors are pretty quickly deserted, and if they think I’m in here burning then oh well. I know there’s no fire. Or at least, not the kind people might think.

My phone is buzzing – I normally hate answering my phone, but as I jog down a main corridor towards the head’s office, I answer it almost without consideration.

“Hello?”

“Diana! Oh my God, are you okay??” It’s Niall, shouting over a lot of noise.

I yell back to him, and my voice echoes through the now-empty school. “Yes!! Yes, I’m fine. Where’s Marcel? Where’s Harry?” More to the point, where is Liam... 

“Marcel’s here. I’m with him now. D, they’ve called an ambulance-“ I stumble and fall over. The bottom drops out of my world. 

Oh God. It only goes one way from here. Niall’s still talking “- is conscious, but not saying anything. I have no idea where Harry and Liam are – some teachers broke up the fight and they disappeared. Did you see it happen? D? I swear I’m gonna kiss whoever set off the fire alarm – we owe them... Diana… D? Diana, are you there? Diana?” There’s so much background noise. They must be outside in the crowds full of people. Oh God, an ambulance.

I lean against some lockers and close my eyes. Let alone setting off the fire alarm – this is directly affecting my stomach. I can taste bile.

“DIANA??” Niall’s yelling at me through the phone. I pick it up and try to speak – my lungs inflate rapidly and I get a little lightheaded.

“Yes – oh God, I’m still here oh my God is Marcel… okay, okay. Okay. Breathing. Ok.” I raise my voice. “Niall, I’m guessing Harry and Liam will’ve been taken to the Head’s office. I’m headed there now. I, uh, oh God…” I rub my face with my hands. I’ve got to concentrate on one thing or I’m going to… I don’t know what I’m going to do. This is a powerful mix of nausea and panic, and the two in conjunction make me feel completely discombobulated.

“Okay – D, I gotta go – I gotta-“ and he’s gone. I slowly slip my phone back into my pocket.

I walk the rest of the way to the Head’s office. I’m in something of a daze, which removes all the things which normally remind me I’m not invincible.

So, naturally upon finding him there, I walk right up to where Liam is sitting and say, “where’s Harry?”

He slowly raises his head and stares at me. Then I remember that, firstly: I’ve never spoken to this guy before. Secondly: my boyfriend just beat him to a pulp over something he may or may not have done. Oh my God what the actual fuck Diana why-

He lowers his head back into his hands, neck straining with the action. “Don’t know. Haven’t seen him.”

There’s nothing for it now but to persevere and talk to the guy. If he kills me with his bare hands, then so be it. Right now I’m shutting down function by function inside me, as one by one they all cry out for the same thing: I’m staring right into the face of self-harm. This is what it feels like. This is how it feels – like everything will only be okay if I take control of the pain and pay for it in blood.

Nothing Liam can say or do will scare me as much as that does, and I cling to that. If he hurts me, so be it. It’d be a relief to be injured at someone else’s will. It’d let me right off the hook, in fact.

“I know it wasn’t you, you know.” I can taste the words as they come off my tongue. I don’t sound very afraid. Maybe this is God himself, finally stepping in.

Liam looks up at me. “D’you know who it WAS?”

I shake my head. He breathes out a long, bitter breath.

“It actually was me. Not in the way you might think, but this is on me and me only.”

I open my mouth, then close it, startled. What an interesting thing to say. I wonder why he feels guilty… if it really wasn’t him. I mean, Harry would say that it doesn’t matter if Liam had dealt the blows himself or not – it was HIS friends under HIS instructions; I’m not so black and white about good and bad.

“Why the hell you even talking to me?”

Ah, now, I have an answer to that. Keep Calm. “Because I want to know what’s going on.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Well, Harry-“ one of Liam’s hands has curled up into a fist “-would probably like you dead right now. But if you two hate each other forever he’ll be just as miserable about it as if you come out and say to him that it wasn’t you.”

“I can’t do that.” We stare each other down. The guy looks defeated. And really not actually that scary. I can imagine he’d look beautiful with a genuine smile on his face. And fewer bruises. “I thought Harry hated me...”

“No, he just loves his brother.”

Liam smiles bleakly. “That’s true enough. S’funny how love means violence when you add threat.”

“I think it’s a survival technique. Imagine if it submitted quietly.” My confidence is growing in the matter: there’s something he can’t tell me, and it’s apparent that the stakes are high. “What aren’t you saying, Liam?”

He flinches like I’ve slapped him. I swallow.

There’s a very long silence while he stares at the floor.

I must keep digging. Even if it turns out I’m digging my own grave. “Yesterday… yesterday, I saw some guy threatening Zayn, outside, by the Science block-“

“Oh God, Zayn”, he cries, emitting this prolonged wail. I hug myself. “It wasn’t his fucking fault! They shouldn’t even give a damn about- holy fucking shit-“ he presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and rocks back and forth slightly. I tremble.

“You gotta go- you’re Diana, right?” He looks up at me, and he’s crying. I nod, staring, mute. “You gotta go. You can’t talk to me – or Zayn.” He gets to feet. “Don’t talk to either of us, okay, you can’t even come near us-“

“Why not?”

“-because THIS happens-“ he flings an arm out in the general direction of the fight. He paces past me. Oh my God, is he saying what I think he’s saying?

“They’re blackmailing you... aren’t they?! Whoever’s done this-“

“Shut up. Go the fuck away.”

“No-“ I take a step towards him. Man, my chest hurts. “If they see you or Zayn talking to us – to any of us – they take it out on… on Marcel.” I stop. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why would they be using Marcel against YOU-“ he turns and gets right up in my face and oh my God what are words how do you breathe someone help me I’m going to fall backwards please-

“You need to stop. Right now.” He stares at me, but I see more of the threatened than the threatening. “God, fuck this.” He stalks past me, obviously intending to go.

“Brendon and Ashton,” I blurt out, like I have some kind of desire to be burnt to a crisp in his firey gaze.

He stops still and turns to stare at me.

“Brendon and Ashton,” I repeat. Something is starting to make sense. God, I wish I had pockets right now; my hands are clenching and unclenching painfully. I want to bury them in a hoodie. “They did this. And you can’t tell a soul.”

The last thing he does is nod at me, once, slowly. Then he turns and walks away.

Good grief, what a mess.

School is starting to repopulate when I finally emerge from the staff corridor.

In a daze, I skirt around the edges, avoiding the frenzy. I make my way outside and walk over to the edge of the grounds. I wasn’t built for long-distance bouts of life, but I guess my stamina must be increasing because I haven’t crashed yet. I sit down against the chain-link fence and call Niall.

He answers, speaking softly. “Hey, D, where are you? Lou and Eleanor are looking for you. They keep texting me.”

“I, uh, I just talked to Liam-“

“WHAT? D, what the hell-” if even Niall is having that reaction, then I should probably keep my findings to myself for a while. The issue being that silence is causing all the trouble.

“I’ll explain later. Where’s Harry? Where’s Marcel? How is Marcel??”

“We’re all at the hospital. I’m sitting outside Marcel’s room at the moment. Harry and, uh, his mum are in there now…” he trails off. In a heavy voice Niall describes Marcel’s injuries, and while there’s seemingly nothing life threatening there, it’s a grim list.

I ask Niall to ring Eleanor or Louis for me and tell them to come find me where I am, and get off the phone. Then I put my head in my hands and space out for a bit.

Letting absolutely everything else go, I think I’m in love with Harry.

Try as I might to turn off everything, the one thing that remains is a simple kind of link. Like, when I am emptied out, what is still remaining belongs with him. I want to take him away with me to an abandoned and beautiful planet and lie next to him under an empty sky and not say anything at all and maybe kiss him when the sun goes down and not think or feel but simply be. I want everything but me and him to stop. Nothing is as important to me as him. I don’t know much about love, and I don’t know how to measure it on any kind of scale – sure, it might be superficial, or childish, or kinda meaningless, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t love. Nothing is ever clear cut or easy to label. If it looks like a duck and smells like a duck and tastes like a duck, then it’s probably a duck. And if it feels like love... I’m beginning to wonder. ‘Probably’ love may be the closest I ever get, but that’s ‘probably’ as close as anyone gets. It doesn’t have to be the finish line: just running the race is enough of a qualifier. 

Maybe there is no finish line. Maybe there’s never a finish line.

I had to learn the very hard way that people are totally dismissive of emotions in teenagers, and just how damaging that can be. It took me years to take depression seriously as a result. And I often wonder if I shouldn’t take devotion and adoration just as seriously. And, like calling self-harm depression, I wonder if I shouldn’t call these things what they really are as well: love.

Louis and Eleanor find me a little while later, and we do a bit of crying – well, Louis mostly just runs his hands through his hair and looks distressed. The movement reminds me strangely of Zayn. I wonder if he’s okay, wherever he is.

They sit down with me on the periphery of the school yard. Louis remarks that we might be spotted, but it’s funny to me that there are such arbitrary things as school rules right now. I think about how I’m keeping their company as much as they’re keeping mine, and it strikes me how appropriate that phrase is: these are good people right here. I still can’t believe I’ve been blessed enough to count them among my friends, and if I’m certain of one thing, it’s that I will keep their company in my heart like I’d keep a precious gift under my pillow. It’s a comfort and an assurance, and it will be with me always. I couldn’t be more grateful.

This warmth of their companionship is a strong enough feeling that it isn’t superseded by what comes as quite a prickly conversation.

“So where did you go? After the fight? You weren’t out with the rest of class when the fire alarm went off...” says Eleanor.

I decide not to mention that that was me. “No, I went... ah, I went to the Head’s office.”

“God! What happened-”

“-D! Why?”

“Um...” tell the truth, Diana. Truth’s a solid meal in the face of junk food. “I was looking for Harry, and... and I found Liam.”

“God, I wanna skin that son of bitch-“ Louis thumps the ground beside him with a fist, looking away. Eleanor touches the side of his face.

“What did he say, D?”

I’m looking at Louis. I don’t really wanna do this. I don’t really want to say what I have to say. But then, I doubt that Marcel ever wanted to get beaten to a pulp, or that Harry ever wanted to have a fight with some of his best friends, or- this isn’t helping. I tell myself to shut up.

“Louis,”

“Yeah?”

“Um, okay, Louis, you’re gonna have to listen to me for a minute.”

I look at him. I don’t know that I’ve ever actually had a proper conversation with just Louis. I mean, Eleanor’s here too, but I know Eleanor’s heart, and it doesn’t have the same bitterness. In her softer approach to life, the split last year seems to have turned to loneliness instead of anger.

In Louis, I guess the opposite.

“Okay: Liam... you knew Liam, right?”

“Yeah... I mean, before he fucked up and stabbed his own best friend in the back.” Okay, definitely bitter.

“But, like, pre-Danielle screw up, what did you think of him?”

Louis looks surprised by the question. “Uhh, I mean... yeah, he was a good guy. But, like, you just don’t DO that to someone, D – Danielle and Harry had been going out for TWO YEARS-“ which is far longer than six months. I clench my stomach muscles a little bit and file away the thought for future consideration. “Sometimes I can’t even look at him, it pisses me off so much...”

I nod. I’d best be out with it – I think the self-reflective questioning is creeping Louis out. “Well, I’ve only spoken to him once – today – but even though I caught him on what was probably one of his worse days, I could see exactly why you were all friends with him. Louis... don’t you miss him?”

He stares at me. Eleanor’s looking worriedly between us. 

Then she does something for which I’ll forever be indebted to her. Like, it kinda makes my heart lurch. She links her arm through her boyfriend’s, then looks at me and holds out her hand. I take it, throat thickening.

“Lou... you do. You know you do. I’m sorry, but she’s right. Liam’s not... he’s not, like, awful. He’s still... Liam, y’know? Just Liam. He’s always been a bit thick when it comes to, like, social behaviour, but you know he’d never do this....”

Oh my God... She actually genuinely just called out her own boyfriend on my behalf. What a babe. “Took the words right out of my mouth, Ells,” I say softly, squeezing her fingers. Louis bows his head. 

“So what did he say, D?”

I gaze at him. “He said... um, it wasn’t him. Like, he isn’t the one who, y’know... is hurting Marcel.” I thought I was fairly calm, but actually saying those words out loud pricks at my eyes a little bit, and the tears well up.

“No, D, but you saw him – you saw him, today-“

“That wasn’t him,” I bite my lip. His eyes are wide.

“You know it’s true, Louis...” Eleanor murmurs. I guess he does, because he sighs heavily and leans back.

“And, guys, more than that, I think... okay, do you two know anything about Brendon and Ashton?”

“Second names?” Asks Eleanor.

“Um, I don’t- um, you okay, Louis?”

His eyes are wider now, alarmed. “They’re bad news. They’re extremely bad news. Why you asking?”

“Wait, in what way are they bad news?” 

“They’re proper bastards. In year nine Ashton got expelled from this school for setting some kid on fire. He put this kid in intensive care for weeks. He’s got one hell of a reputation as well – he runs the closest thing this city’s got to a gang, and is like, constantly off his face on, like, crack or acid or something. Just – bad news all around. And I don’t know much about Brendon, but I think he’s part of that sort of circle– wait... D, wait, are you saying they’ve got something to do with Marcel?” He sits upright but I’m reeling a little bit. This is extremely bad news. What the hell have we gotten into.

I’ve got that feeling I always used to get when there was so much blood I couldn’t tell where the cuts were anymore – like things were so over my head that I couldn’t see the top or bottom. We’re in deep shit right here.

But at least I’m not alone. I realise I’m practically breaking Eleanor’s hand. “Sorry, Ells, sorry-“

“S’fine,” she links her fingers back with mine, frightened.

“Diana, what’s this about Ashton?”

“God, okay,” I shuffle around, trying not to feel like the waves are lapping up to my eyes. “I think... I think Liam – and Zayn, for that matter, have somehow got involved with Ashton and Brendon, and...” I take a deep breath – I am about THIS far away from crying “and Liam was talking like his hands were tied, when I was up there earlier. And I mean, REALLY tied. The guy’d just been beat up by, uh,” I close my eyes “by one of his old best friends –“ I feel a hand on my knee and look up: Louis is meeting my eye with a grim look of his own. “You’d think he’d be angry, or maybe just sad, but he looked frightened. And I mean, like, I know what fear looks like, and he looked – like – PROPERLY fearful... Louis, I don’t know if you can find it in you yet to be worried about him, but...”

“No, no but this changes everything. Wait a minute – Ashton Irwin. Oh my God, no. Okay...” he looks unsettled, spooked, almost. “Okay... There’s something not very many people know-“ Louis swallows and leans back a bit, paling. “I mean, I only just remembered, because... well, because I haven’t really cared for ages, but, uh – Leeroy, Liam’s cousin, he was found with Ashton’s brother Josh. This was back when we were in, like, year 8 or something-“

“Oh God,” says Eleanor. I can hardly inhale, hanging onto his every word as everything unravels to reveal a complicated tapestry, intertwining the messy with the messed-up.

“Yeah, and I don’t know much about it – mostly because we were all too scared to really discuss it when it happened – Ashton’s a couple years above us and was still hanging around terrorising little children at this point. But I guess – when they outed Josh and Leeroy – that’s when Ashton properly went darkside: he came down hard on his brother. People joke about homophobia and stuff, but Ashton’s the real deal. I think Leeroy got off minimally, I don’t really know – but Josh committed suicide not long after it happened.”

Oh good God. Oh no oh no oh no I hate that word; I can’t bring myself to look at the implications of that word long enough to even begin fearing its meaning. I detest the very sound of it. It’s like hearing a gunshot or a seeing a knife wound – you can’t look away and you can’t stop thinking about it, even though you know it won’t help anything.

“Oh my God, Louis, how do I not know this?”

“I dunno, Ells, but I’m not surprised you don’t: Liam never talked about it. I mean, he never was close to Leeroy, but even so... I mean, I only found out because our mums are quite good friends,” he scowls slightly and I absently wonder if his parents have done that annoying things of bypassing his social setups in order to inconveniently pursue their own friendships. “D, you okay?”

Louis’ hand is back on my knee. I realise I’m breathing kind of hard.

It would be very, very easy right now to sink into darkness and disorder and just let rip a heaving panic attack. 

But no: the key is not in being okay, but in believing that I can be. It’s not the finish line: it’s the race.

I don’t matter right now as much as Marcel does. I need them to keep talking. I need to think and be immersed and occupied. So I guess it’s handy that we have a bit of a puzzle to solve.

I breathe in. “But, I mean, the thing which didn’t make any sense was... like, why would they now be using Marcel to get to Liam? It doesn’t make any sense...” I say.

“That’s true,”

“Yeah, I don’t know. Maybe...” Louis’s thinking hard. “Well, obviously Ashton’s trying to get to Leeroy, and maybe Marcel got thrown into that package.”

“But why even drag Liam into it?” Asks Eleanor.

“I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure they’re blackmailing him somehow. He told me not to even be seen talking to him, as if that would make things worse, or something...”

“So... So if you ARE seen talking to him, then what happens?”

“I asked him that – he just said that, that THAT happens – like, he meant the fight him and Harry got into earlier...” everyone’s quiet for a moment.

Eleanor speaks. “You don’t suppose it has something to do with protection? I mean, if Liam’s avoiding you or Harry or anything to do with the two of you, then maybe he’s in danger if he’s seen to be mixing with you at all?”

That makes a surprising amount of sense, actually. I blink at her. “Yes! Maybe... wait-“

“D?”

“Wait, I saw it – I saw it all – duh!” I slap myself on the forehead, my innards plunging as the protective fog of confusion clears and I turn back into a bottomless chasm of sickly emotions.

“Saw what, D?”

“Talk to us,”

“Um – sorry – um, when it happened, this morning, the guys who framed him-“ I’m so stupid – SO STUPID – how did I not pick up on that? Well, to be fair, I’d had other things on my mind.

“Wait-“

“Who framed who?? What-“

“Guys, okay: I was stood behind Liam when these two guys came up to him, just before it happened, and, like, they were threatening him – I can’t remember exactly what they said, but then when Marcel appeared, they shoved him towards Liam. It was them! Somehow framing him was a punishment-“

“Was one of them kind of stocky, with a sort of greyish-brown crew cut? Kinda lumpy looking?”

“Uh, yes?”

“That’s Brendon,” says Louis immediately. “And I’d bet the other one is Si. The two of them are practically Ashton’s right hand guys.”

My roiling stomach matches the disgust in Louis’ face.

“So you’re saying he was framed for it? For beating up Marcel?”

I nod at Eleanor and she stares at me, horrified, before burying her face in Louis’s shoulder. He kisses her hair, looking even more distressed.

I’m still untangling things in my mind’s eye. “So... they framed Liam, to make – to make HARRY think he’d beaten up Marcel, which they would’ve known would make Harry go for Liam...”

“It’s misdirection.” I look at Louis. He stares intensely back at me and speaks with real conviction. “It’s gotta be. Think about it: back at the beginning of January when Marcel… and then Harry spends the entire month practically promoting the idea that he’s on the brink of murder-“

“Oh my God, so what if they’re framing Liam to get themselves off the hook?” Says Eleanor.

“Yes! ‘Cause Harry will kill anyone he knows has laid a hand on Marcel, and they’re vulnerable because Liam knows it was them – the first time, which they did because of Ashton, and so-“

Eleanor finish my sentence with wide eyes: “-they tell Liam that if he even tries to tell Harry who it was, they’ll frame him and make Harry go after him instead of them- Oh my God.”

“Bastards-“ spits Louis, with great venom. I have to say I agree with him.

“That makes almost too much sense. But that’s gotta be it,” I say. I groan and put my head in my hands. I have a good, old-fashioned headache. It may be mostly psychosomatic, but it’s not directly emotional, and that almost feels good.

“Oh my God, D, when we saw Zayn and that guy-“ says Eleanor.

I stare at her in horror. “They must’ve included him in this deal – if either of them say anything to any of us –“ that explains Zayn’s abrupt and manic text. More than explains it, actually, and further assures me that we’re onto something of the truth here.

“But they didn’t, did they? I mean...”

“Yeah,” says Louis, looking at us both. “I mean, unless the attack on Marcel today-“ I flinch a little “-was just one helluva demonstration of power, you’d think it would mean that either Liam or Zayn have been talking to Harry, but I’m pretty sure they haven’t-“

“Well, Louis, it’s quite likely it could be any of us...” Eleanor’s talking but there’s blood rushing past my ears. Oh. My. God. This is my fault. Oh my God oh God oh God oh GOD-

“Diana!”

“Diana, Diana, are you okay, Diana, talk to us -“

I’m face down on the ground somehow, and I don’t remember getting here. 

“Zayn,” I croak.

“What about him? D, is he okay?”

“What is it?”

I shake my head. Everything is spinning too much. With some difficulty and horror I try to explain my guilt.

“Ells... Zayn getting threatened... out by the science block – that was the moment – he – he’s... he spoke to me. I went up to him yesterday and we had this whole conversation because Zayn had tried to – oh God he’d tried to take back what he’d – he was trying to protect Marcel. And they saw him with me. It’s my fault- my fault... if I hadn’t spoken to him – Marcel would be okay-“ oh my God how am I supposed to live with this please let me be wrong.

They both immediately start negating my blame, while admitting that my brief meeting with Zayn would explain both the mysterious scene by the Science block AND this morning’s catastrophe. Which doesn’t make me feel better.

Eventually I force myself to get up. I have to get up. I have to bear this. This is my fault, but it would be EXTRAORDINARILY selfish of me to do anything as shocking as pity myself; it is now my job to spend the rest of my life carrying these bruises and doing my damnest to heal them. I wish I could assure Zayn that this is all on me. Liam, too. I wish there was some physical way of shouldering the blame that doesn’t break the promise.

“Oh God, they were trying – they were trying so hard to protect us – I got a text from Zayn telling me that it had nothing to do with either Ashton OR Brendon, and that was why I was even talking to Zayn in the first place – because it had made no sense when I got it – Oh, God-“

They comfort me while I cry, Louis’s hand on my foot and Eleanor’s arm around my shoulder. I never thought physical assurance would console me any, but it’s warm.

Not that I deserve warm. I deserve to be left alone in the cold, dank dark. Maybe that’s why I’ve had the life I have had so far – it’s not like I deserve any better.

But while I’m being persistently dragged out into the warmth and the light by my obstinately loving friends, I swear down I will give my absolute all to earning this place in the sun.

I suddenly want to be left alone for a while.

Sure, it’ll be super important to tell all of this to Harry as soon as possible – Louis agrees strongly with me that this would be a job best delegated to me. It’s not something he’ll want to hear, and he might listen to it coming from someone who he’s confident loves Marcel as dearly as he does.

I also need to go and see Marcel as soon as I can, for my own peace of mind – we all get the same text saying he’s going home from A&E after they’ve done some check-ups in the next hour. This relieves some of the immense pressure from my shoulders – like, I know he’ll be safe if he’s at home, and I’ll feel more ready to see him in his home than in a hospital.

But that’s something I can do tomorrow. All of it is. Tomorrow. 

Today, I need to sleep.

Eleanor and Louis offer to drive me home, and I accept, sitting in the back of the car and keeping myself preoccupied by noticing their habit of holding hands whilst Louis drives with one arm. I wonder if it’ll ever cause them to crash: imagine if the crash was fatal, and all they could tell of the twisted and broken remains would be that they were clinging to each other, bonded together for an eternity in death... It sounds like a terrible tragic-romance – or maybe a sort of Grand Theft Auto meets Romeo and Juliet.

I thank them for the ride, and the wisdom and the love and their company, and everything, and go into my house.

I don’t call my boyfriend. I don’t call my therapist. I don’t call any of my friends or any of the people who may or may not be friends or friends with my friends and I don’t call my mum. I don’t call anybody.

Instead I pass time by doing homework. It takes my mind away from everything. Everything except Harry. I miss Harry.

Evening comes with good grace and speed, and I down a couple sleeping pills and switch myself off.

Lying in bed at half seven, waiting for them to kick in, I wonder if tomorrow will be better or worse. And whether today was better or worse.

It was definitely worse for everybody I love, but the fact that there even is an ‘everybody I love’, no matter their current brutalised and victimised and strained state, is something that I cannot help but feel makes everything better.

Better or worse than what, I’m not sure, but I think, maybe, just life in general.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I WOULD, AH, LIKE TO MAKE A PERSONAL APOLOGY TO ASHTON FOR MAKING HIM THE BAD GUY. Ashton, irl, is SO not the bad guy (´ー｀) Ashton has all the villainous semblance of a bunny rabbit in teddy bear slippers and pink bows tbh (づ｡◕‿‿◕｡)づ
> 
> However, SOMEbody needed to be evil. Just because life is much easier when there's SOMEone evil - SOME quantifiable source of pain and grief, and this fic was already grim enough without making every demon a figure from within their own heads (╯_╰)
> 
> I have nothing against Ashton. Much as I might wish otherwise, I have never met the lad, but I am fairly confident that he is of mild character, charming temperament, and a totes bantarish disposition. A great guy he does indeed seem, and he is most certainly not any of the things which I so cheerfully make him out to be in this fic. FIC. FICTIONAL.
> 
> Yeah. Sorry, Ashton. You're a sweetie. Love you. (▰˘◡˘▰) (｡♥‿♥｡) xoxoxox


	13. Kotov Syndrome

The next week passes in an eerie silence.

Marcel isn’t talking to me. He isn’t talking to anybody. That’s the strongest, and maybe the most punishing silence. It frightens me deeply. He won’t even meet my eyes – just sits at home in bed and looks down, hands and arms clenched.

The other kinds of quiet are the hushes that happen whenever Harry walks anywhere. As Marcel isn’t in school, I stick by Harry’s side at pretty much every hour of the day, and it becomes difficult not to notice the fearful whispering that surrounds him. It’s an unsettling silence – an imposter in the place of the usual hustle and bustle.

There’s complete radio silence from Zayn. I see him and Liam in school, but they avoid us like the plague. Knowing the sincere and sacrificial reasons behind it, it makes my heart clench. I wish I could thank them deeply without undermining the whole endeavour. I do suspect that there’s a slight double effect of giving Harry some space, though.

Harry’s quiet too, but I’m less worried about that silence – maybe because I understand it more.

It doesn’t mean I’m not wary of breaking it, though, and it means I don’t really get a chance to talk to him about Liam or Ashton or anything until Friday breaktime.

“C’mon,” Harry murmurs to me, and pulls me out of the corridors and into an empty classroom. There, he puts his arms around me and rests his forehead on mine. “Can we just…”

“That’s fine with me…” I say, tension rolling off me like steam, leaving me cooler.

We spend a good five minutes like this. It’s the best thing.

“Harry?”

“Mm?”

“Can I ask you something?” 

We lean back and he takes my hands.

“Anything.”

“Okay, um, what do you know about Ashton Irwin?”

Harry scowls bitterly. “First fight I ever got into was with Ashton bloody Irwin. When I was in, like, year 8 or something.”

My eyebrows go up. “Seriously? God, why? What happened?”

“Dunno. Can’t really remember now. I just remember it was something to do with... Liam being upset and Ashton was, like, pushing him around or something… I beat him up pretty bad though. I’m not proud of it, but I WAS pretty fierce for a twelve year old. I think he’s been scared of me ever since,” he chuckles a little.

I’m staring at him. Of course he would be. It fits. Ashton’s scared of Harry – and Marcel’s a way of getting to Harry without direct contact – and Harry’s a way of getting to Liam, through both fear and loss – and Liam is a safeguard from Harry for Ashton. Good grief.

“D, you okay?” He touches my face, fingers smoothing out the worry from my cheek.

“No-“ the bell rings. The bloody bell. I stare at Harry despairingly, and ask him quickly. “Okay, I need to talk to you – will you skive next lesson with me? In the mean-time, though, how’s Marcel?”

“Oh, didn’t I say? He’s in school today!” He takes my hand and smiles at me tiredly as we walk.

“No way! Oh, good for him.” I bite my lip. I don’t know whether that’s really the right thing…

“Yeah, I mean… he’s no better. He just looks dead… all the time,” he swallows. “But I’m HOPING that getting back into a routine will help him feel a little bit like everything’s back to normal…” we walk down the corridors together. The crowds don’t bother me so much when Harry’s here. I just kind of hide behind him and delude myself that everyone will be so busy noticing him and all his popular grandeur and I will go invisible, small by his side.

“What d’you want to talk to me about? You okay?”

“Um, yeah. In fact, it’s about Liam. And Niall might wanna hear this too. Louis and Eleanor already know-“ I bite my lip. He’s giving me a curious look.

“Okay… should we do it in here, then?” We’re passing the library. I’m trembling a little, and he totally gets that I don’t really need excessive people when I’m like this. I’m so nervous. I don’t really want to have this conversation at all – and it may be unfair on Harry, but there’s no way I’m having it twice: Niall can hear it with him, and then it’s in their hands. I ask him if he’ll find Niall for me – I’ll wait for them in my usual spot in the library.

“Sure – I might be a few minutes – I actually have no idea where he is,” he smiles at me and kisses me softly on the lips. It makes me smile a little bit.

He wanders off and I amble over to our chess set, where it lives on the shelf. I think of it as ours now: mine and Marcel’s. I take it down and look at it, thinking.

The pieces are in a box, but I just look at the board for a while.

I’m kind of anxious to see Marcel at lunchtime – will he say anything? In his silence, how is he coping with school today? I’m kind of unsettled that he’s even come in. I want to believe, like Harry, that this is a move for the better, but I keep thinking about the Marcel I saw yesterday.

I could only come over to their house briefly, as I wanted to get back and cook for my mum, but the moments spent in Marcel’s room had felt like an eternity. A silence that covered all manner of evils and raised shadows behind every thought. There had been something dark there, and it chilled me in recognition.

In the silence in the library, I confront what I haven’t been wanting to think about: suicide. 

I’ve considered it before – never with any real intention of deliberately carrying through – mostly in the dark hours, when the sight of clean skin is repulsive to me and I’m digging further and further and further for the sounds of normal life to be obliterated by an internal white noise. Then I’d wonder if it wasn’t too late for me. I’d look calmly and objectively at death, like standing in front of a door and wondering if I’m going to go through it.

There was one time when I did think for certain I would die. I dunno, maybe there were a few times. But it didn’t feel like suicide – just like a natural descent into darkness. I wasn’t scared, I wasn’t apprehensive or sorry. Just kind of… accepting.

But if Marcel’s there… if he’s standing in front of that door… I wonder whether he’s pounding on it and screaming or just staring… 

Is there anything I can do? Me? How can I possibly help, except to listen? But how do you listen to someone who isn’t talking?

I sit and stare at the chess board for what feels like a very long while. It’s all black and white and clear cut and simple.

Death’s a funny thing. It’s more of an absence than a presence – it’s difficult to focus on it – like staring at a hole and knowing that there was something there, but you can’t quite remember what, because it’s gone. And everything shifts towards that hole, bunching up unnaturally and stretching and straining to try to fill that space.

I don’t know whether it’s better or worse to leave the hole be, or to try to knit it together again.

I shake myself. That won’t happen. Marcel won’t die. He can’t die. I’m going to talk to him all lunchtime until I get to the bottom of his mind, even if it is an infinite chasm. I will. I will do something. Anything.

It would be devastating to lose him. I can sit here quietly and think about it, but the reality of that hole makes me shudder and shudder continuously. Everything is flashing out into blackness.

That’s one thing about death that I do understand, because self-harm brings you close to it. Everything becomes black and white. Like a chess board.

We move over it all the time, and it’s only if you’re looking for it do you see death in every decision. Like a game of chess. To be standing so close, whether through emotional proximity to the dead or, like me, through an actual breach of fatality, your perspective begins to take on that quality – like the contrast has been hit up to maximum – like the good becomes undeniably and unmistakeably good, and everything besides falls into the same blanket opacity. Black and white. More black than white, admittedly, but all the little things that are greyscale in everyday life – they don’t matter so much. 

Maybe that’s why I’m as apathetic as I am and as grateful as I am, to schoolwork and people respectively. My perspective has been forged in pain and that near-death-ness that self-harm brings. I understand, and permanently see the things that matter compared to the things that don’t. All the time.

That’s how I live: the people in my life now are blindingly important to me – I’m liable to cry whenever someone smiles at me, because it’s one of the few things which flares up out of the general and all-encompassing darkness that used to be everything I saw. 

I suppose suicide is the name of such a perspective when all the lights have gone – all black and no white. It’s dropping out of the race because you’ve realised that there is no finish line and you just can’t keep running.

I have the impression that the lights in my life – Harry, Marcel, Alison and Eleanor and Louis and Niall and Zayn and Luke and Calum – people – friends – they’ve been casting a little of their reason and their brightness upon all the things around me.

In the past few months, little things have meant more. Tiny habits have developed in me. Things I didn’t bother with, because they weren’t life or death. When death is so huge, everything is life or death. I’ve gotten used to that. That’s how I’ve lived – for years and years and years.

But maybe I’m finally starting to step onto that greyscale – starting to understand the graduation of importance which enables people to differentiate between smaller levels of meaning, and find different size reasons to do different size things.

Some people – people like Niall, I have no doubt – seem to live their lives in glorious technicolor. Everything has colour and verve and energy and light and variation in ways I can’t yet begin to imagine. I wonder if I’ll ever feel that. I doubt it. I’ve been black and white for so long that even the concept of simple silver linings is exhilarating and alien to me.

But it does mean I understand the darkness.

I sigh heavily and open up the box of chess pieces, meaning to distract myself and fiddle around for a while until Harry comes back.

But the black and white in the box is disrupted by a startling flash of vivid colour. There’s something in here that doesn’t belong. Something which catches my eye and turns everything upside down. It’s wrapped in a piece of paper covered both sides in writing. I pick it up and the two fall away from each other.

It’s a gold chess piece.

And a suicide note.


	14. Armageddon Chess

“Hey, D. I don’t know if you’ll even find this, but if you have, it’ll probably be at lunchtime. Sorry I won’t be there to play chess with you anymore, but I think you’ll agree that this is for the best. I can’t keep breaking promises if I’m not around to keep them, y’know? And you know I love you and Harry, but I just think it’d be better for both of you if I wasn’t around causing grief and trouble and things like that. This way Liam and Harry can make it up and everything will be okay for them. You should know that it wasn’t Liam who kept beating me up – it was Ashton Irwin and some of his friends. I don’t know if you know who that is, but he said to me that if I told anybody he’d beat up Harry. This way he doesn’t have me as a bargaining chip. If you will, please explain to Harry that it wasn’t Liam – then they can finally make up and that will be better.

Don’t miss me – I’m better off dead. You’re a kind person – the kindest – so you should understand that you mustn’t pity me or anything like that – I’m doing this because I think I will be happier if I’m not around to cause prolonged grief to everybody. Yeah. I don’t know how to say goodbye, but actually faced with the prospect of death, I’m inclined to think that it’s like a wormhole – I’m just dropping through to somewhere else. I have no doubt I’ll see you there, whether it be heaven or hell for the people who sacrifice other people’s happiness for the sake of causing themselves pain. Sorry. That was mean. I don’t want to be mean. The last thing I want to be is mean. I want to not be mean even more than I want not to be dead. Please don’t tell Harry until the end of lunch – I died at 12 o’clock – noon exactly, so there’s nothing you can do, okay? Calm. We’re all safe now. Be calm. I’m pretty calm right now, just so you know. This isn’t spur of the moment. I’ve been thinking about this for a while, but I knew you’d flip. Keep breathing, and just sit and remember me a while, okay? Then it’ll all be over. It’ll all be over then.

Okay. I’m gonna leave this here, I think. It’s not like anyone else uses this old chess set. You can have my one at home if you like. Please keep the King for me. And keep Harry for me.

Okay love you lots – M.”

No.

Absolutely not.

NO.

THINK DIANA THINK GODDAMMIT THINK GODDAMN DIANA DIANA MARCEL DIANA YOU CAN’T DO THIS RIGHT NOW GET UP OFF THE FLOOR COME ON USE YOUR LEGS INHALE TRY TO INHALE TRY TO BREATHE GO GO GO GO GO GO GODDAM DIANA BREATHE GODDAM IT MARCEL GODDAMMIT NO I HAVE TO GO GO.

THERE IS NO BLACK AND WHITE THERE’S ONLY GOLD EVERYTHING IS GOLD EVERY SECOND IS GOLD EVERY SECOND HERE IS PRICELESS GET UP GO RUN RUN RUN EVERYTHING IS CRUCIAL NOTHING YOU WILL EVER DO IN YOUR LIFE EVER AGAIN WILL MATTER AS MUCH AS THESE MOMENTS COME ON COME ON COME ON-

BREATHE YOU NEED TO BREATHE YOU NEED TO BREATHE BREATHE BREATHE OH MY GOD MOVE YOU HAVE TO KEEP MOVING THEY NEED TO KNOW THEY NEED TO SEE THEY NEED TO UNDERSTAND

“Diana! God, Diana!”

“Oh my God, what’s happened?”

HELP ME OH MY GOD HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME PLEASE I CAN’T DO IT PLEASE HELP ME DEAR GOD JUST LET ME DIE I CAN’T DEAL WITH THIS I CAN’T BREATHE

“Is she okay?!”

“I think she’s having some kind of fit – someone – get a teacher!“

MARCEL. MARCEL. MARCEL. MARCEL. MARCEL. MARCEL- 

“No, don’t! She hates that. Diana! Diana, listen to me – calm down. It’s okay. I’ve got you-“ 

GODDAM HARRY READ IT TAKE IT OUT OF MY HANDS READ IT READ IT HARRY FUCK READ IT PLEASE HARRY WHAT DO I DO PLEASE MARCEL PLEASE NO

“Harry? Harry, what is it? What did she give you? Harry!”

I CAN’T SEE I CAN’T SEE MY HEAD I THINK I’M BURNING DEAR GOD I’M GOING TO BURN IN HELL FOR THIS WE’RE ALL GOING TO BURN EVERYTHING IS BURNING I CAN’T CONTROL MY BODY WHERE IS MY BODY EVERYTHING’S ON FIRE I CAN’T SEE I CAN’T SEE I CAN’T BREATHE 

“Diana!”

“Oh my God she’s having a seizure, what do we do – do we slap her?!”

HELP ME SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP ME SOMEBODY PLEASE WHY CAN’T YOU HEAR ME THERE WAS SOMETHING-

SOMETHING I NEEDED TO DO-

“DIANA! I don’t think she can hear us-“

SOMEBODY I NEED TO HELP-

“Woah, okay, I got you, D, okay...”

SOMEBODY PLEASE

SOMEBODY.

HELP...

…

I come to in the recovery position. And I think it’s only been a moment, but I’ve aged a lifetime.

There’s a deathly calm inside me. Evidently I just had the biggest and fastest mental breakdown in human history. Fuck, my head hurts.

I sit up wretchedly quickly and nearly rip my stomach muscles. We have to find Marcel. Dead or alive I need him in my arms.

“Diana, fuck, no, sit back down-“ someone has a hold of my arm. It’s Louis.

I look at him. I’m breathing deeply, almost gasping for air like I’ve just been asphyxiated. Which I think I was. My vision’s a little disjointed and nothing’s the right colour, like my settings are off, but I can see what’s in front of me perfectly okay now.

After checking I’m okay, Louis is now looking at Harry, who is swaying on the spot. There’s a piece of paper screwed up in his hands, which are to his mouth. I’m clinging to something too – a gold chess piece in my fist. There’s some seriously powerful throbbing going on in my head – all I can hear of the conversations going on around me is a loud, dull rushing of blood, but it keeps me sane. A thought – a concept I would never be able to get my head around – sits in the middle of the haze.

Marcel is going to kill himself, and we have to do something about it.

Harry seems to be waiting – for God’s sake, what for? For God’s sake – for Marcel’s sake –

Niall comes bursting through the doors. His face is a powerful shade of dread. Harry must’ve sent Niall to get Liam – and Zayn: the two of them have entered just behind him.

I’m crouched on the floor like a sprinter in an Olympic stadium. My muscles are burning. Oxygen deprivation, I’m guessing. I take deep breaths.

I stare like a rabbit in the headlights from Harry to Liam. From Liam to Harry. Why did Harry bring him here? C’mon, think, Diana. Focus. 

All I can think is that Harry wants to fight him. As if so, then this could be it. This could be the end of everything. Come on, Harry, don’t do this-

“You better have a good Goddam reason for getting Horan to pull me out of class, Styles-“ Liam’s grumpy rumbling disappears when he sees Harry’s face. If death were a painter, Harry’s face would be a perfect portrait.

“I don’t care, Liam…” Harry has his eyes closed and he’s still swaying on the spot like a leaf. “I don’t care what you have and haven’t done, okay, I don’t- care-“ he’s having difficulty breathing and it’s like voodoo magic – the harder he struggles, the more quiescent I am.

“What? What’s going on?” Liam is just staring at Harry, but Zayn has turned urgently to Niall, to me, to Louis, to anyone.

I get to my feet and say “at twelve o’clock today, Marcel is going to commit suicide. If he hasn’t gone ahead and done it anyway. Uh, we need to find him.” Hm, I’m no as steady on my feet as I’d hoped I’d be. Louis moves quickly to steady me.

“Oh, God…”

Liam can’t say anything at all. I’m surprised Harry’s still standing at this point. The whole world is behind me. Only Marcel lies ahead. Dead or alive. Dead or alive. Dead or alive. In time or out of it.

“God, Harry – I swear – I never meant this to happen – God – oh, God – no, no, this isn’t my fault – I swear –“ Liam’s horrified. More than that: he’s panicking.

“Liam, God – I don’t fucking care what you have and haven’t done, okay.” Liam’s a tornado and Harry’s in the eye of the storm. 

He puts a hand on Liam’s shoulder and grips it, not letting him leave. “You help me find my brother. Help me find Marcel. Just- help me.“ He bows his head and drops his arm.

I’m completely emotionless. Maybe it’s an emergency mental coping method: shut everything down until anything’s working. “Okay,” I say. “We’re going to need to co-ordinate. You’re going to help us search the city –“ I point to Liam and Zayn “-and we’re going to need contact. Harry, give me your phone; Liam, I need your number.” I hold my hand out to Harry without looking at him. Liam is staring at me.

I don’t think I’ve ever spoken so many words to so many people at any one time in my life, and certainly not with any such authority. Strange.

There’s absolutely no response.

“HARRY! PHONE! NOW!” He scrambles to pull it out of the pocket of his skinny jeans, Everyone seems galvanized by my screech. It was a little hysterical. Okay, so I’m barely keeping a lid on this then. Hrm, maybe I’m in shock.

I order him and Liam to swap phones and they enter each other’s contact details.

“Uh, Zayn they’re gonna need yours as well,” Liam mutters to his buddy without looking up from Harry’s phone.

“Done. Niall’s already got it,” I say swiftly. Liam turns his head to Zayn. Harry looks at Niall. Louis sniggers.

“God, you heard of decent interval, Louis?” I say to him.

“What? No-“

“It means laughing isn’t helpful right now.” I say and turn away from him. “Come on – we need to go. IMMEDIATELY.”

“Wait-“ everyone turns to look at Liam, who’s holding his own phone up to his ear. “No, you go on ahead of me-“

“Liam-“ Zayn takes a step back to him, wary of the tensions they’re already causing just by being here.

“No, guys, I’m gonna pull some people from class. People who know the city. They can help –“ he exchanges a look with Zayn, and Zayn nods.

“Chris,” says Zayn.

I wonder who Chris is. We need to get going. It’s twenty minutes past 11 already.

“Exactly. Wait-“ Liam lurches towards me. “Why are we searching the city? How do you know he isn’t –“

“What, in a bathtub somewhere?” I say bluntly.

“Oh God- Oh God-“ I turn without looking and take both of Harry’s hands and clench them to my chest. Either he’s really hot or I’m really cold.

“-Because he once told me that if he were ever to kill himself, he’d jump off a building.” They all stare at me. I’m feeling a lot like throwing up. “Come on, people, we need to- to move.” Keep a lid on it, D.

We practically run out of school, Niall and Louis firing questions at me and Harry that might help narrow down Marcel’s location. Harry barely says anything, occasionally murmuring ‘oh, God’. I keep a tight hold on one of his hands and a constant dialogue with Louis and Niall and Zayn, who are revolving around us like a royal guard. Zayn’s on the phone with Liam, relaying everything we say in an urgent voice.

We all pile into Louis’ car and we’re downtown within a matter of tense and deadly quiet minutes. It’s the most horrible car ride of my entire life, because nothing’s working properly. I’m chewing on my nails and Harry’s head is buried in my neck and Niall’s arms are tightly folded across his chest and he keeps looking out the window, then at Louis, then back out the window. Zayn is sitting next to me tapping his phone noiselessly onto his leg over and over and over and over and over and over and –

“Stop here.”

“You sure, Malik?” Says Louis. We’re in the middle of town, and not in a very legal parking zone.

“Why?”

Zayn looks up from his phone and nods out the window. There’s Liam – and a guy standing with him, talking quickly.

“Don’t worry, Louis, if you get towed we’ll all chip in,” I’m still chewing on my nails, biting hard. The pain helps me focus. And God knows I need to focus.

Harry takes one of my hands again and it suddenly gets harder to bite my fingers; I’m still clutching Marcel’s gold chess piece. 

We’ve all jogged up to Liam and this guy is saying: “...not on any of the public access rooftops, we’re almost certain-“

“-which would make sense, as he’d hardly want an audience. Sorry, who are you?” Says Niall.

“Chris.” He nods to us all. He’s kempt and spruce and looks appropriately grim. I take a warming to him and take my fingers out of my mouth to speak over the others.

“Are you helping us find Marcel? How? And, not that it’s important right now, but WHY?”

“Because Irwin is a sodding son of a bitch – but mostly because it’s what any decent human being would do. Screw my job – there are lives at stake.” Definitely like this guy. “Right-“ he quickly explains that he works in Council security – specifically in CCTV. So, basically, we have every camera in the city now looking for Marcel. God, thank you.

“But what about the places where there are no cameras?” Asks Louis.

“Yeah, you can’t have public CCTV on private property – can you?” That’s Niall, head still snapping from one face to another, from one face to another. A wave of nausea sweeps through me in a powerful way as my teeth clench so hard with anxiety that it sends pain through my skull. Harry holds me up.

“Done.” We all look at Liam. His mouth is set. “I have friends – well, not friends, but people who are as scared of me as they are of Ashton, and they’re more than willing to do some breaking and entering.” Chris doesn’t so much as blink at this violation.

“Where are they now?” I ask, dizzy a little.

“On hold-“ he looks at Chris. I realise they’re both holding their phones in their hands, expectantly. We’re all kind of caught in a time bubble for a couple seconds. I see Zayn check his phone – it’s thirty three minutes past. Another wave of nausea. I’m definitely going to be sick. I’m afraid to look down at my right hand. It hurts. I clench my fist around the chess piece.

“And- hold on-“ Chris swiftly lifts his phone to his ear. “Tell me what you got, James – no, anything’s good... Okay-“ he looks up, repeating the information to us. “He was seen walking down New Elvet Road twelve minutes ago – that’s the other side of town okay people GO GO GO-“

Chris apologises that he can’t come with us but we’re back in the car in a heartbeat. A normal one. My heartbeat right now is really elevated: I’m shaking so hard. My arm seems to be convulsing. Harry’s let go of me and I’m furiously ripping the skin from my fingers and Liam is on the phone shouting to somebody or the other about New Elvet Road and Louis’s driving is positively illegal and we run up onto a kerb and pile out of the car and it’s thirty nine minutes past eleven and Liam waves his hand violently and we all stop and stare at him like this is a bad movie and-

“Yes, Will, talk to me-“ he’s holding up a finger, staring around wildly. “GOD. THANK YOU.” He hangs up and starts running, shouting: “passport office! Will’s on top of the offices opposite and he says he can see somebody on the roof of the passport office –“

You aren’t technically allowed on the roof of the passport office. It makes me smile a little sadly at the thought that Marcel would break so many laws to die.

My hands are burning white hot in a way which all of me remembers. I daren’t look down, but I’m not quite breathing properly and it’s getting harder and harder for me to keep up with the others as we enter the building through a back door and climb the stairs. A gross kind of thin saliva fills my mouth and my throat bloats. I know what this means. I’m about to be sick.

I’m the last one in this party – even Harry has taken off. I double over in the stairwell. Thankfully we haven’t really encountered anyone yet – I’m heaving quite heavily and my stomach muscles hurt – and looking down was a really, really stupid idea: my hands are covered in blood. Absolutely covered in it – papery and white and shredded by long, dark streaks of red – I stare at them, and then primal fear takes over.

I have to get away from this oh my God I have to get as far away from this as I possibly can I have to get away from this – it’s a thought I don’t even really have the mental capacity to understand right now, but I find myself stumbling around in wild circles, mad with terror, into a toilet and then I’m vomiting really hard into a sink. I throw up again and again and again until my vision blacks out from the cranial pressure. I didn’t realise how much blood was in my mouth until it’s all there in front of me. I’m shaking all over, blood-soaked hands gripping the edges of a sparsely-lit basin, gold in my fist chinking against pseudo-porcelain. I cry weakly as my tear ducts try to rinse the excess acid out of my sinuses.

I can’t think about Marcel right now. I can’t think about anything right now. Right now I am a purely physical being – an animal – and my animal instinct for survival is taking over. If I fail him, well then – I fail him and myself. And I just can’t think about that right now.

My instinct for survival is a tired one, though. I turn achingly and rinse my mouth out in a different sink, ducking my head under the tap and letting some of the water wash over my eyes and nose and back into my hair. I don’t rinse my hands: that’s a world of pain I can avoid right now.

It’s as I turn to get paper towels, blithely ignoring the mess I’ve left in one of the sinks, that I see the fire door. I bet there’s an emergency stairwell behind there. I bet it goes onto the roof.

I kick back into gear a little and run for it immediately, shoving it open – thankfully it’s not alarmed.

I’m right it’s a rusty old stairwell oh God I’m gonna have to climb this thing oh my God Marcel I’m coming oh my God more stairs God please don’t let it be too late what time even is it right now my mouth tastes horrific-

I have to jump a few chained gates as I rise up the levels and I’m starting to lose wind again. The bitterly cold air taunts me by whipping against my wet face and lashing all my body heat from me in a shocking freeze, and my teeth are chattering and knees screaming and body aching and dark blood congealing all over my hands, pulling the skin into strange, chafing shapes and I reach the top and dear God please if you’re there if you were ever there for anyone dear God oh God thank you thank you-

“Marcel!” I don’t shout it. I don’t have the breath to shout it. I say it. Like this is an ordinary conversation and we are ordinary people. Like there even is such a thing as ordinary.

I have to climb over a gate to get to him – my shredded fingers scream in protest – I bet I get tetanus from this – God. He’s sitting by the very edge of the roof, cowering and hugging himself.

But very distinctly not dead.

Even as I emerge, there’s a loud bang as evidently Harry and Liam batter down some door and they arrive on the other side of the roof. They notice me first, small as Marcel is, and I can feel the whole horizon behind me – I am nothing but a silhouette, empty as I watch as Harry gives this horrifying kind of lurch when he spots his brother.

We’re all about the same distance away from Marcel. He’s sobbing hysterically. Suddenly nobody knows what to do. We all just kind of stand there in this awful, shuddering moment. Marcel is rocking back and forth, framed against the sky, and from every angle his every motion seems to topple him over the edge. Harry is losing it slightly and I find myself running to him before I can control my feet. I can’t look at Marcel I can’t I can’t I can’t – God, my hands hurt.

I thump into Harry and he grabs me, hugging me to himself briefly before taking my hand. I don’t think he notices the blood. 

He’s squeezing my fingers and it’s causing me SO MUCH PAIN but there is no way in hell I would let go. Not ever.

He grounds me a little. I breathe easier – a King in both hands.

Abruptly, Liam starts forward, but I stop him with a hollow shout. As I point out, though Marcel knows Liam’s innocence, he doesn’t know the extent of it and there’s every possibility that Marcel’s only going to think that Liam’s come to push him off, as it were. Harry’s staring at me and I remember that I never had the chance to explain everything to him. Liam is about half a molecule of extra water in his eye away from full on crying. After all, now faced with the prospect of watching a death for which he feels morally responsible, I suppose it’s more than he can take.

Harry actually IS crying. As is Zayn. Well, actually Zayn’s just shaking a lot, but I think he’s crying. I can’t look though. I can’t look anywhere but Marcel and oh my God Marcel. I can feel Harry’s sobs vibrating through my arm. 

None of us want to move. We’re all terrified that one wrong word, one out of place movement once he notices us will be the end.

Somehow our lives are, in this moment, tied up infinitely with his. If he ends, we do not know what will become of us. We are collective. We are one live unit, and Marcel holds our future in his hands.

Then Marcel gets to his feet with a scream of anguish that we can hear from where we are now. It galvanizes me and me and Harry both start running at the same time. I can’t say a word but Harry is yelling his name over and over again. He’s let go of me because he can run faster and I start to lose my grip a little hold onto the King hold onto it this is all that matters now oh my God he’s noticed us oh my God-

Marcel starts visibly and turns around. 

As I get closer I can see that he’s actually a good few feet away from the edge, but that’s doing nothing for my nerves. I’m going to be sick again. I feel like I’m staggering. My entire body feels weak. Harry. I need Harry.

Marcel’s just standing there, sobbing so hard he can’t even stand upright properly. I can see the unadulterated fear and confusion in his face, like he sees but can’t comprehend who we are. 

Then Harry reaches Marcel. He grabs him. He just grabs him and hugs him so hard I swear it causes physical pain to the poor kid.

That’s always the worst and the best kind of pain – the pain other people cause you.

I stop about a metre away from them, breathing quickly and heavily into my hands for a few different reasons. I’m not crying yet, but I know that will come later, after the shock has worn off. Right now I’m just standing here, watching Marcel cry into Harry’s shoulder, and watching Harry cry into Marcel’s hair, holding him and saying something over and over again. I think it’s just “please”. I’m still breathing very quickly.

The others catch up with us and I think I’m having a panic attack. It’s here all over again. This feeling this is unmistakeable I can’t control my breathing. I’m having a panic attack. I’m having a panic attack. I’m having a-

A gentle hand on my back. A voice telling me to sit down and put my head between my knees. I obey mindlessly. I think it’s Niall. God bless you, Niall Horan. I try to focus in on his lilting, song-like accent and nothing else. I’m holding on so tightly to the King my entire body is clenched and it hurts.

I can hear wailing and crying and Niall’s voice and I think everything becomes a bit too much for me. My head is swimming I am breathing too fast. Too fast too fast too fast- 

I think I momentarily black out, because somebody stumbles over my feet and suddenly I realise I have no idea what’s happening. I can breathe again though, and my whole body feels terrible. My chest hurts and tears weakly dribble from my eyes. My mouth tastes absolutely foul and I can’t work around it. It’s like acid and blood. I blink furiously and look up, disorientated.

Niall is standing up next to me, watching. I turn to look and I just don’t understand what’s going on. My head can’t cope with it. I focus on breathing. At least I can breathe. Eventually I look up. I see Marcel.

I stare and stare at Marcel but he’s moving around too much. Which makes me realise that my arms are completely locked around my knees. I try to move, to stand up.

Marcel is struggling fiercely away from his brother and Zayn, each of whom are trying to console him, to contain him. They’re holding his wrists but he’s sobbing and shaking and I can’t look at any of their faces but Marcel’s and his face is overrun with tears and his expression is one of absolute unadulterated terror. 

I get to my feet, shaky and uncertain. Niall grabs my arm as I wobble, and my almost-fall turns me so that I can see Liam. 

He’s just standing there, staring in horror at Marcel, tears streaming down his face. Niall’s gripping my sleeve in silence, but silence is an illusion. Everyone is shouting. Marcel is screaming. So much noise. I don’t like it.

I put my hands over my ears, whimpering helplessly, and I’m still clutching the gold chess piece. I force myself to be calm. To count my breathing. To focus on peace instead of the boy in front of me. He’s a wreck. He’s hysterical. What’s left of my fingernails dig into my skin as Marcel rips himself away from Zayn. He stumbles backwards but we’re sufficiently far away from the edge that it doesn’t ignite terror in us in the way that it did before. I roll the chess piece over and over and over in my hands, terrified.

Harry still has a tight grip on Marcel’s shirt, but Marcel is kneeling on the ground now, shrieking for them to stop with all his might.

A hush falls on the scene as Marcel takes a huge breath in. I think it’s probably the first real breath he’s taken since we arrived.

Harry moves in towards him, kneeling beside his brother. He’s speaking to him. My hands fall from my ears and I take an involuntary step forward to hear what they’re saying. Marcel flinches at the movement, but then he looks up and his eyes meet mine.

“Diana!”

It’s the first coherent word I’ve understood since getting out onto his blasted rooftop. Shaking, I lurch forwards and fall to my knees beside Harry. 

Marcel reaches for my hands. He’s crying so hard I don’t even know where to begin to calm him. I glance at Harry as I take one of Marcel’s hands in my own. Harry’s just staring. Just staring. He’s very pale.

“God – Diana - you’re not supposed to be here,” he says, sobbing. I look at Marcel. His chest is rising and falling, eyes closed, crying tapering off into exhaustion. But there’s life in him yet. 

I’m shivering continuously. “Yeah, well, neither are you.”

“You can’t- you can’t guilt trip me into not jumping, you know – and it’ll be worse for all of you if you have to watch me jump.” 

There’s a wide sincerity in his eyes. Harry turns and buckles. Someone – Louis – grabs him. I stare at Marcel. I think he thinks he means it. I think he thinks he’s prepared to carry through. I stare and stare into his eyes.

I fold my legs under me and I sit beside him, letting out a breath of air. He’s scared. I mean, we’re all scared. I’m surrounded by teenage guys sobbing. Yet, again, the more they panic, the calmer I feel.

“I know, Marcel... I know. I didn’t come here to- to guilt trip you. I guess if we’re making you feel guilty, then that’s your own conscience. I just – I just want you to have this back, and to understand that – that if you jump, I won’t be watching you jump – I’ll be jumping with you. NOT – not literally. I just mean – look what I mean-“ it takes some physical effort – my hands are nearly broken, they’re clenched that hard, but I raise my fist and prise open my fingers and I hold out to him his chess piece. It’s no longer gold. It’s covered in a grisly, patchy layer of dried blood that stings as it’s torn away from my hand.

Marcel stares. He reaches out a trembling hand to take it. His hands are white and the brownish colour of the mottled chess piece looks filthy against his skin. He’s looking at my hands. He swallows a little. “Have you... Did you- BITE yourself-“

“I threw up downstairs. I’ve been chewing them the whole way here and the taste of all that blood made me sick.” I can feel eyes on me. Someone – Harry – says something, quiet and appalled. Even Marcel looks shocked.

“God, D, throwing up is awful – you must feel horrendous right now,” there’s almost sympathy in his eyes. There’s no way this guy is ready to kill himself.

I shrug, but I feel even lighter. Because he doesn’t get it. If he were to jump, I would always feel like this. I would tear myself to pieces bit by bit until there is nothing left of me and I’ve gone too. I’d have failed him, and I’d’ve failed myself. But I can’t say that out loud. That really WOULD be guilt tripping him.

But what straightens my spine a little is that he doesn’t see it. He hasn’t really thought through the consequences. He hasn’t thought this through. He was so scared, when we first saw him up here – so scared. He isn’t really going to do this. He’s still alive.

“I can’t keep this, D, I gave it to you to keep for me.” He politely holds it back to me.

My hands ball up. “No.”

“D-“

“I said NO, Marcel. If you’re going down, the King’s going with you.” 

“Diana-“

This conversation here, right now, this a chess match. This is a logical, strategic fight: moves and countermoves. A game. And I’m going to win it. “You know why the King’s never taken, in chess, Marcel?”

“What? Yes, but-“

“Because that’s when you stop. Everything stops before the King dies. Marcel, you told me this yourself – you get to the point where there’s no way for the King to survive and every piece stops. The whole game stops. You start over. It’s not the end so much as time for a new beginning – you always said, Marcel, you never, EVER forfeit – YOU NEVER THROW DOWN YOUR KING-“ I take a deep breath. “You never surrender. You never give in. You – you personally, Marcel. You always said you’d play ‘til the King was the last piece standing and you walked into a Stalemate. What happened to never throwing down the King?” I’m struck by a sadness that he would even consider it. I’m really sad. 

He looks equally sad. “But... sometimes... you know you’ve lost long before the end actually comes. Why would you keep playing at that point?” He stares at me. I’m biting my tongue extremely hard. It’s like no matter what, I have to have some kind of exertion of tension. “Besides… I’m not the King, Diana – I never was. I’m barely a pawn in this game, and sometimes you have to sacrifice the unimportant pieces to PROTECT the King-“

Harry pushes Louis’ arm from him and sinks to the floor, kneeling beside Marcel and putting his forehead on his brother’s shoulder. 

“King Pawn endgame,” I blurt. Marcel has closed his eyes for a moment, but he’s still looking at me when they open.

“What?”

I’m making absolutely no sense. This poor guy. I look back at his ashen face. “The King and Pawn vs King endgame – you can still win if you have a pawn behind your King – not necessarily if it’s in front of your King – it all depends on whether you can Queen it or not-“ Harry turns where he’s sitting and they’re both staring at me. “One pawn. All the King needs is one pawn and he can win. But – no, Marcel - that’s not the point-“

This sets him off again and he almost pulls me over as his body violently shakes. “THEN WHAT IS THE POINT WHAT IS THE POINT OH MY GOD WHAT IS THE POINT” he’s screaming it over and over again but it’s like he can’t look up. He can’t move his head. I can actually see the tears fall directly onto the tarry surface of the roof. Harry’s still crying, trying to calm him down, trying to console him. I have no idea what the others are doing but I hope they have had the common sense to back off a little.

Harry’s speaking through clenched teeth. “It’s okay, Marcel. IT’S OKAY OH GOD LISTEN TO ME PLEASE YOU’RE OKAY- oh God, oh God oh God-” Harry breaks off and turns away. He’s shaking almost as much as his brother. With some difficulty I extricate one of my hands and touch his shoulder. Marcel wraps his fists around my other hand.

I’m still counting my breathing, furiously and single-mindedly concentrating on repeating “one... two... one... two... one... two...” and so I do it out loud.

“One... two... one... two...”

At first I don’t think Marcel can hear me.

“One... two...”

Harry turns back and takes my hand with both of his, like Marcel.

“One... two...”

Marcel’s sobs quieten. 

“One... two... one... two...”

I’m just murmuring the words gently, repeating them ad infinitum. 

“One... two... one... two...”

Very abruptly, all of Marcel’s hysterical adrenaline seems to pack it in and he slumps forward. I break off without meaning to.

“Hey, hey, I’ve got you, don’t worry, I’ve got you.” He leans in to me and his forehead gently bumps my shoulder. Harry has his arm around him. “We’ve got you now. You’re safe.”

He gives an almighty sniff. Then says, quietly, “but why... why are you HERE... I was supposed... supposed to be...” 

There’s a heartbreaking kind of shame in his voice. I bite my lip. 

“Because...” Harry begins. I glance at him and I register vaguely that he’s looking up at Liam. “Because nobody wants you to die, Marcel.”

“I do.” He answers. Quick and unhesitating. Absolute. 

I don’t have a particular propensity to giggle at inappropriate moments, but if there ever was one, this has got to be the absolute epitome of that character flaw. I don’t know whether it’s the residing hysteria in my nervous system, or my brain reacting out of sync due to stress, but after a pause, I burst out laughing.

“D, what the hell...” mutters Harry. Marcel lifts his head incredulously and I lean back, laughing until my sides hurt. Sure, it’s completely hysterical, and there’s blood all over me, and Marcel nearly killed himself, and I threw up, and everyone’s crying and everyone's screwed up, but it’s like that moment in a game of chess, when you’ve been tense and stressed as your numbers get steadily decimated, and then, suddenly, someone makes a move, and the endgame becomes clear. Up until now, that moment for me has always been a bit of an eye roll – yeah okay, fine, whatever, I’ve lost AGAIN – let’s see how long I can drag this out – but now...

“What?” Marcel’s not smiling, but his interest has been piqued. He’s looking at me curiously. I know how to play this.

“Because it’s moves and countermoves, Marcel. This is chess. Life. It’s like chess. Moves and countermoves.” I have his attention for moment – Harry’s gripping his brother’s shoulder and staring at me. They’re both staring at me. I can’t look away from Marcel right now. “Moves and countermoves. Life throws something at you, you throw something back. Offense and defence. You play the game. You don’t forfeit, you just-“ my eyes well up. Funny. I’d’ve thought I was too wrung out to cry. “You just don’t.” Before I know it I’m taking my hand out of Marcel’s and wrapping it around his fist – the one that’s clutching the King.

“Look at you!” I’m kinda holding hands with both the Styles boys, so I can’t gesticulate quite as I’d like. My tone is very emphatic though. “Look at you, staring at me as if you can comprehend no reason why I should find this funny. You know, even in this past month, in what has possibly been your darkest hour-“ he flinches “-I still haven’t beaten you in a game of chess.”

He sniffles. “You nearly did... that one... that one time-“

“Yeah, but you didn’t lose, did you? You’re good at chess, Marcel: you’re really, really damn fucking good at it. And that’s all life is.” 

He still has that look of wanting to listen only because it’s easier than hearing what’s going on inside his head. “You have a family of friends who’d do anything to help you. You have your pawns and your knights and your entire row of people who’ll fight for you, tooth and nail. You have our hearts, Marcel, you really do.” Harry nods viciously and looks like he might throw up. I know how he feels.

“And you’re capable of that, Marcel. You’re capable of playing the world like a game of chess. Moves and countermoves. You’re one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met. I don’t doubt that you can do that. And if you hit a stalemate, you call out to your fellow teammates and together we reset the board. Honestly, it doesn't matter what piece you are. It doesn’t matter if you’re a King or a pawn or a Queen-“ absolutely no pun intended but dammit that’s funny. “Okay, so you’re a Queen-“ My eyes flash with humour and I try not to grin. 

Harry is staring at me, completely gobsmacked. “Oh my goodness, Diana you are the worst person-“ he starts, almost laughing.

“No- don’t-“ chokes Marcel. He coughs and clears his throat. Harry is immediately contrite. 

“Oh God, Marcel, I’m so sorry-“

“No, I didn’t mean-“

“No, I know you didn’t, I know... But, my God,” Harry pulls his brother away from me and into his arms, resting his forehead on Marcel’s shoulder.

“Ah, sorry. Bad joke.” I smile gently at Marcel, safe in his brother’s arms. He closes his eyes, and he hides his face from the world, burying it in Harry’s shirt. And then I know for sure he’s safe. It’s as if hugging Harry is a universal sign for resigning yourself to going on living. I know exactly how it feels to be in those arms and to know that he’s a safe-guard – a windshield – like it’s just him standing between you and the world, but that’s enough. More than enough.

I hug myself a little bit.

“I know you came up onto this roof for a different reason, but now that we’re here, just look around you. I bet if we sat here ‘til sunset you’d see in the sky every reason to stay alive.” His eyes flash and something else happens to his expression.

I pause and watch him. He’s thinking. Brightening, almost. Like a spluttering candle slowly flaring back to life.

“I can see why you picked this spot. It’s quite spectacular – quite beautiful, really...” I turn my head and gaze outwards. This side of the building looks out over a bend in the river, which offers enough of a break in the skyline to show a clear patch of sky. The piercing silvery-blue cool of the late winter sky is bleached to an open white down near the horizon. This would be an incredible place to watch the sunset. I wonder if that’s why Marcel came here.

I’m absolutely chilled to the bone. My joints feel jarred, too – I’ve been shaking for at least an hour solid now. But I’m also happy. It’s so weird – SUCH a weird feeling. It’s relief and a giddy kind of triumph that makes me feel light headed and trippy. Like catching your second wind and realising that actually, you can keep running. This is a marathon you can do.

“Marcel,” says someone. It’s Louis. He crouches down and looks him in the eye.

“I know it’s not really my place, but you should know, Marcel, that we all love you. And I know that you understand and love the world far too much to want to be rid of it. And, frankly, of all the billions of happenings and consequences, you are the one we’ve all chosen. We’re all here because of you. And let me tell you,” he leans in close to the three of us and says in a smirky whisper, “you are DEFINITELY going to want to stick around to see some of the consequences of today...” he winks at me as I catch his eye. Startled and kinda delighted, I think I’m getting what Louis is saying. Quite beautifully as well.

Marcel gives an almighty sniff. “What... what do you mean?”

I chuckle, taking up where Louis left off. “We mean that Liam is seriously bunking school to come find you. He couldn’t stand the idea of you throwing yourself off that building anymore than we could. And if that doesn’t restore some of your faith in the goodness of humanity, then, well...” My fingers are so cold and stinging so much that I’ve put my hands around my knees and I’m gripping them to cut off some of the circulation. I don’t want to let go just for the sake of an emphatic gesture, so I just shrug.

Harry lets out a long, heavy breath, shaking his head. “If you had jumped off that building...” 

“I... I’m so sorry... Harry...” both of them start crying again, but there’s a different quality now. Like gentle rain after a hurricane. Rain through which the sun shines and creates a promise of peace. 

“Markle... you don’t even know how much I hate myself for even letting it get this bad. I tried. I tried to protect you, Marcel, but I didn’t- I couldn’t- oh my God,” 

Marcel’s crying too hard to respond. There’s a lot of sniffing going on. From me included.

I sit there for a moment more, just kinda letting the tears and snot run down my face until they run out. Then I get to my feet and step back. 

Niall is standing just behind me, Louis with Harry and Marcel, and Liam and Zayn a bit further behind Niall, all looking at the two boys on the ground. Liam is sitting down too, hands clasped over his knees. I can see from here that he’s crying – and quite hard. I’m starting to wish I’d left the house today armed with a van full of tissues. 

Niall meets my eye and smiles a little, worried, nervous, colourful as ever. What a darling. 

“He okay, then?” 

I shrug. I want a Nialler-hug. “Well, no. I mean, he did just almost commit suicide.” I approach him, raising my arms a little. They’re heavy, but Niall huffs with relief and gives me a comforting bear-hug.

“So you think the immediate danger has passed?”

“Yeah... and I honestly think Harry’s crying harder than Marcel is...” We both look at back at the Styles’ boys. It seems true, actually. But then, that’s very fitting. Marcel has a steady, methodical nature: he takes things in his stride and moves on quickly.

It’s the things which are too big for him that cause nightmares like today.

It’s Harry who never quite shakes things off, who takes them straight to heart and reacts whole heartedly and emotionally.

And Liam’s still crying loudly enough that I can hear him from here. There’s something upsetting about it – this is still a storm. I glance back at him and all I can think of is someone trying to swallow a hurricane.

We all stay where we are for an exhausted minute.

Niall’s humming something slow and quiet, I think for comfort. Zayn runs his hands through his hair a couple times. Louis ambles over to us, leaving the Styles boys where they are, but he doesn’t say anything.

Then Harry beckons to me. I jolt awake a little and my hands throb. I move towards them.

Marcel’s getting to his feet, and he hugs me tight and hard before I can even say “I am so glad you’re not dead."

“Thank you, D. I love you so much,” he says into my ear.

“Love you more, Markle.”

He smiles at me, and I take his hand with my free one. He squeezes it appreciatively. Ouch God fucking DAMN. OW-

Much to my surprise, and apparently everyone else’s too, the next voice to speak is Liam’s.

“Hey, Marcel...”

I can see panic in both Liam and Marcel’s eyes. He keeps squeezing my hand and I swear I’m going to scream with pain-

“S’okay,” murmurs Harry. I don’t know if he’s talking to me or his brother, but it helps. We all look at Liam.

The guy looks awful. He’s still crying. “Man, I am so, so sorry. You can’t even understand-“ he swallows. “I just- I feel like a piece of shit. No, I am a piece of shit, okay, for what I’ve done to you and, oh shit, sorry, man, I can’t even say how sorry I am... I’m not even gonna ask, n’kay, for you to forgive me, cause I don’t deserve that. But... But I promise you...” he’s struggling, but I’m honestly impressed with how much of an effort he’s making to look Marcel in the eye. Marcel, however, just seems quietly stunned. “I promise I will spend the rest of my life trying to make it better, okay, and undo... what I’ve done... to you...”

I glance at Marcel, then take a slightly worried closer look. There’s a kind of dark steeliness I don’t recognise there. The colour of blood and bullets and fury and ice and all the kinds of things you DEFINITELY wouldn’t expect from someone with fairy lights around his bed. It kind of breaks my heart. This is something which never leaves.

He coughs. “Uh...” he swallows. “Liam?” Liam looks terrified, but Marcel has everyone’s full attention. “Just... just so you know, I don’t hate you. I’m not... I’m not really prone to hating people. But you do- I mean, you did, I mean, like, um, mostly the things you did, or... or the things your friends did- at least, people who called you a friend, like, I don’t know if you... even-“ he coughs again. I touch his elbow gently, letting my hand fall after a moment. Marcel seems to collect himself. 

“What I’m trying to say is that I don’t really blame people for the things they do. I will never hold it against you. I entirely blame myself. Everything you- everything ANYONE would say to me cuts deep, and I mean, like-“ he suddenly shuffles and starts fidgeting with his sleeves. I close my eyes briefly. My hands really, really hurt... “It does quite literally cut me.”

Liam makes some kind of fantastically contrite response which doesn’t quite go through me, but Marcel smiles at him.

“You okay?” Says a voice in my ear.

I want to reply to that voice. That voice means a lot to me. There was worry and love in that voice.

Oh my God am I still bleeding? I’ve made that mistake again and I’ve looked down at my hands. I must’ve bitten really deep. I sway.

“Okay, guys, we’re gonna have to get off this roof – I think Diana needs help.”

“No! No, I’m okay-“ I protest – Harry is hovering around me like a mother hen, not knowing what to do. God, it’s so unfair of me to be like this just after Marcel- I must be okay for a while. I must.

“D, you’re really not,” says Zayn, softly, moving forwards.

I shake my head and pull my own sleeves over my hands so they can’t see and oh GOD that hurts-

“No, seriously. Let’s – let’s do something. Let’s get off this roof and go somewhere.” I’m kind of hoping we can all barrel into a safe room and never emerge.

Harry turns to Marcel and asks him tentatively if he wants to go home.

“Um...” he shakes his head nervously. “Not really. I think... I think I want, um, ice-cream.”

“What?” Harry’s quite taken aback, but much to my slightly twisted delight, Liam catches on immediately. 

“Deal, kid. Ice-cream’s on me, okay? Have you been to Maggie’s Milk Parlour, just down the road?”

“Yes! That’s my favourite,” Marcel seems surprised by his own boldness and beams a little. “I mean, thank you...”

I just catch him mutter, “s’the least I can do, man, believe me.”

Niall puts an arm around Liam’s shoulders. “Ice-cream does sound good right now. Despite it being simply the coldest day, like, ever.” He beams across at Marcel. “I’m glad you’re... well, obviously not okay, but... okay, kid.”

“I think what Nialler’s trying to say is we’re all pretty glad you’re not dead.” There’s a ripple of laughter at Louis’ words. Even from Liam. The way everyone’s looking at each other- it’s like shy eight year old girls trying to make friends. I snigger again.

“What?”

“What, D?”

“Nothing! Just... what, are you all going to be bessies now? Bonded by trauma and experience?”

There’s a loaded pause.

Liam bows his head. “Yeah, yeah I reckon we might be able to get on...” he looks up, straight at Harry. Whose face splits into an honest-to-god trademark Styles grin – my whole brain explodes with happiness.

“Well, my brother didn’t die, so I suppose you don’t have to either.” 

Liam laughs, choking a little. “I’d like to see you try, Styles,”

“Bring on the pain, Payne...” he shoots back, jokingly. I laugh and slip my arm around his waist, ignoring my clenched fists.

Marcel copies me, and Louis, on his other side, puts an arm on his shoulder, smiling down at him.

Niall claps a hand on Harry’s shoulder, Harry returns the gesture and they smile at each other. Niall already has his arm around Liam, and Zayn puts his arms around both him and Louis, and we all find ourselves laughing together, peaceful at least.

“I wasn’t kidding about ice-cream. Can we please go get ice-cream now.” I laugh outright at Marcel’s timid and slightly grumpy input.

Liam smiles at Marcel, but there’s some kind of resolution in his eyes which colours his tone when he speaks.

“And I wasn’t kidding about paying. I – I gotta talk to you all about something, but… let’s save it for the ice-cream.” We all stare at him, worried. Then he smiles tiredly. “Ahh, let’s just get off this roof. Come on.”


	15. Battery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for butting into your reading (✿◠‿◠) but this is probably my favourite chapter (◡‿◡✿) Not that it matters. Hrmph. Yeah. I'm just proud of it aahhaa (◕‿◕✿) anyhoo, umm, enjoy xoxox

In Maggie’s Milk Parlour, strange things happen.

For one thing, I feel like I’m witnessing the forging of Andúril; there’s something adorably nervous about the way Louis and Harry initially talk to Zayn and Liam – particularly Liam. Niall, however, chatters enthusiastically between the two parties, and steadily a kind of slow gravitational spin occurs. I watch in wonder as there rises up a kind of dynamic that I can only assume was where they were two years ago.

I stand close by Marcel when we get our ice-creams – it comes in bowls, in this tiny little ice-cream and milkshake bar hidden away above a coffee shop; I’m kind of falling in love with the 1950s décor and extensive range of junk food on offer. Marcel almost looks like he’s smiling, and I don’t say much as we all settle down. Harry keeps glancing at me.

“You okay?” He says beneath the louder conversations going on. I just nod. I’m not sure I can eat what’s in front of me. The taste is powerfully sweet in my mouth, and the cold wipes through a little of the bloody, messy haze in my head. Marcel leans in, concerned.

“So...” says Harry, just to Marcel and me. I quickly draw my attention from the rather interesting dynamic in front of us; Niall is mediating a conversation between himself and Zayn and Louis, neither of whom had, in MY memory, previously spoken a cordial word to the other. It seems to be going rather well: apparently Zayn and Niall came here once before a Ben Howard gig, and Louis adores Ben Howard, so…

“Wait, Harry – Diana,” Marcel takes a deep breath and turns to face me. I know from the resignation and misery on his face what he’s going to say.

“Marcel, on behalf of both me and your brother, I can honestly say we really don’t care.”

“But I broke my p-“

“No, I’m serious-“ Harry’s looking confused “-it’s not a promise not to cut, not a promise to stop hating yourself, or a promise to be okay – it’s not a promise to reach any kind of finish line. It’s a promise to not give up promising. And there is nothing you can do which diminishes the value of that promise, m’kay? It doesn’t break so much as you don’t quite reach the bar it’s setting.”

He slowly puts his head on the table in front of us. Harry reaches around me and puts a hand on Marcel’s shoulder.

“Can you forgive me? Harry? I’m so-“

“Sorry? For hating yourself? Good! You should be.” Harry almost sounds humorous. “D’s right, y’know. Right now you could tell me you’d murdered the Prime Minister and I actually wouldn’t care. I’m just – glad you’re alive.”

I smile down at my ice-cream. Then notice that Liam is watching us. He meets my eye and there is definitely something brewing there. 

“But, D… what about you?”

I look back at Marcel. He and Harry each reach for one of my hands at the same time. I pull back and put them under the table.

“I cannot believe you are even worried about ME-“ I’m trembling a little “-when you nearly just jumped off a building.”

“Yeah,” Liam says. We look at him, startled. “Um, sorry, just… why did you, Marcel? What… what made you want to… y’know? I – Sorry. You’re okay now, though, yeah?” 

Marcel stares at him, then fiddles with his ice-cream a little. I don’t think he realises that he’s holding everyone’s attention now: the others also heard the question. When he begins to speak, his answer is thoughtful: meditated. “I guess… I’ve always kind of had an unrealistic trust in the rationality of humanity. Cause, like, I always figure that if people hate me, there must logically be a reason why. So every time I was… bullied, I’d think ‘you deserve this, Marcel. You deserve everything that’s being done to you and more. You deserve nothing but pain-‘” I have no doubt that Liam heard his name there. And would always hear his name there. For the rest of his life, probably. Or twice that long, if he was half as decent as he seemed. 

“Of course I’m not saying this to make you feel guilty! Oh my God, please don’t ever, EVER hold this against yourself – or any of you – it’s a terrible, terrible thing, but, L... Liam,” he hesitates a little over the name, looking down. “I’m not okay. I don’t know if I ever will be. I’m...” he looks up and around at all the faces, so devotedly focused on his. He seems stripped away, all his humanity laid bare, like a skeleton made of trust and survival. But then, aren’t we all? Two such components, held in tension and contention forever, countermanding and fulfilling one another. 

“I’m not really the kind of person who ever even speaks out loud to this many people at once. I mean, I’m quite prone to fainting during class presentations,” he mutters, “but...” deep breath, “but I hit some kind of rock bottom today. It wasn’t the final landing which I was intending to hit, but mentally I think there wouldn’t have been much of a difference between the hell I’ve been in for a while now and the one I would’ve entered if I’d died... No, I’m not okay. But you being here has made me realise that maybe it’s not entirely my fault- oh no!! Oh no, no, I didn’t mean it was YOUR fault-“

“Marcel it IS my fault. Quit trying not to blame me!” Says Liam, somewhat incredulously. I smile at Marcel’s unquavering forgiveness.

“No, no, no, no, no. No, okay. It’s no one’s fault that I was made like I am. That you were made like you were. Liam, I just want to say that I’m telling you all this now while I can, because right now it feels quite easy to say. Like, in the face of death nothing matters, I guess. I don’t think I’ve ever actually felt this brave – ever. In a way, I’ve never felt better. Because I’m alive. And that’s really the only important part. Everything else is a bit...”

“Like it’s all the same colour – it’s all black, and your actual existence is the only white in a black and white world,” I offer.

“Yes!” Marcel stares at me and I nod. That’s pretty much exactly what I had suspected.

“It’s okay, you know. The shades of grey will return,” I smile a little at him. He beams at me. “Like stars coming out after a flare over the battlefield.”

“Exactly. Reason will return. And with it, I think, probably a sense of pain.” Marcel frowns, falling a little back into his usual unassuming self. “I don’t think I’ll enjoy that very much...”

“Oh God, Marcel....” Liam says. He puts his head in his hands.

I clear my throat. Now everyone is looking at ME. Breathe, Diana, just speak to Marcel. Just pretend it’s Marcel and Marcel alone. “D’you remember, Marcel, I told you that… that it’s like hard-lining towards the finish line-“

“-only there is no finish line,” he nods.

“Well, you nearly created one. Don’t – don’t you think that the only way to get out of a never ending race is to stop running? Like, I dunno, I’m just inclined to agree with Marcel here-“ I look across at Liam. “It’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault. Short of outright murdering him, there’s no way it could be. The only way to get out of this race is to stop running, and sometimes when people realise that there is no finish line, that becomes impossible to cope with. Only-“ I’m clenching my hands under the table and the pain’s getting to me. I’m speaking to myself as much as anyone else right now. “People measure it wrong. It’s not a race. The victory isn’t in finishing – there IS no finish line! The victory is every step of it you actually manage to run. Just being a part of it is a victory. And so many people seem in perfect shape to run – it’s so much like actual exercise it’s bloody ridiculous-“ Harry chuckles slightly “-and of COURSE all the athletic types aren’t gonna understand the people who can’t quite breathe right, or – or the people who are in too much pain to keep running, or the people who just need it to STOP-“ I take a deep breath in. There are mixed looks of sympathy and weird intensity all around me. “What nobody ever tells you is that it’s okay to walk for a bit. If you need to… I don’t know, sorry. I just – yeah. It’s okay to walk. Or even to sit down in the middle of the racetrack and scream for a while at all the twerps who overtake you without offering a hand.” I flash a grin at Marcel.

There’s a long pause. Okay I may have just got a bit hyped up. I look around at their faces, these fractured friends, these. God, they’re all staring at me – what did I say – oh my God - 

“That’s actually really true,” says Zayn suddenly. “And even in marathons you’re allowed t’, like, take a break and grab some water, or s’mthing,” his face crinkles up and he smiles at Marcel.

“God,” Liam breathes, leaning back in his seat. I look at him and I’m pinned a little bit to my seat by his gaze. I don’t understand what it is until he says to Harry, “Harry, man, that’s the real thing.”

I look swiftly at Harry, who’s grinning at Liam. “I know, right?” He says.

“What??” I say.

“Fucking unbelievable.”

“What? What is?”

“You are, D,” and Harry kisses me. I’m fairly sure I should be going bright red, but I’m actually feeling a little faint. I can’t quite think around the kiss, and even when he moves away and smiles at me, I’m fluttering a little too much. I really do need to care for my hands soon.

“You okay, D?” He asks, rubbing my arm gently. I look up to answer and there’s this incredible look on his face which is blinding me to all of my other senses. It’s like I can taste and hear and feel the love in his expression as well as merely staring at it and trying to comprehend the sheer force of the light there. I can’t emotionally process the way he’s looking at me. I have to think about something else.

What. What did he say. Oh! Okay – yeah, talking: “Uh, yeah… I just remembered that I threw up in a sink in that building.” I laugh nervously. “I think they may track me down and arrest me.”

“Speaking of which…” Liam puts down his spoon. Yes, it’s that kind of ice-cream. Spoon ice-cream.

“Yes, Payno. You said you had something you needed to talk about?” Niall says through a mouthful of ice-cream. “Ooph, brainfreeze.”

I manage to look away from Harry only when he looks away from me, and the way he lingers a moment longer than he might’ve doesn’t help me take in the look on Liam’s face. Something in his expression makes me instinctively want to bolt. I blink and the feeling gets worse.

There’s a long silence while Liam grits his teeth. I see Louis and Harry exchange a glance, but there’s less malice in it than I might’ve feared. “Liam... what is it, man?” Zayn says quietly.

“Goddam... okay.” He leans back and crosses his arms over his chest. “Okay. I, uh, I need to say – firstly, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. For all of this. Because it IS my fault-“ he waves his spoon at me and Marcel “-no matter what some of you might say. I’m sorry I didn’t do something sooner, but I was too frightened-“

“What d’you mean?” says Harry, bewildered.

Oh, crap, we never even had that conversation. I cut Liam off, thinking it might sound better coming from my mouth – less like an excuse. “Uh, Harry, this is what I was going to explain to you before – um, this morning.”

“Go on...”

Marcel pipes up. “It wasn’t him, Harry. Liam never beat me up.” Harry and Liam both flinch at the words, but Marcel seems quite pragmatic about it. As ever.

“Yeah, it was – who was it, again?” I look around at Liam and Zayn.

“Uh,”

“Ashton, right?”

“Right,” Marcel nods at me. “Although, actually, it was him and a couple others the first time, but he wasn’t there after that... hrm, I think it was mainly Brendon-“

“Holy fuck Brendon-“ Liam puts his head in his hands.

“-and Si, and, uh some other guys – not sure of their names. But yeah. Just his friends. Not him,” says Marcel, mostly to Harry.

“Oh God, they’re not even my friends don’t call them that-“ Liam’s kind of mumbling into the table. Zayn leans forward, worried, but Harry’s talking, looking pale. 

“Marcel, why didn’t you tell me? Oh God, Marcel.” Harry rubs his eyes. “Liam-“ Liam raises his head so fast it HAD to hurt “-you should’ve told me, man – I’m so sorry. God-“

Liam’s shaking his head. “That’s what I gotta say. I couldn’t. I couldn’t tell you-“

“Why not?”

“Because-“

“Because Ashton was blackmailing you, right?” I intercede. 

“What?!”

“Me too, Harry.” I look around at Marcel. “Um, they always told me that, if I told anyone – if this ever got traced back to them, they’d come after you.” He looks close to tears and he and his brother stare at each other across me. 

Ugh, that makes sense. I mean, I hardly doubt that Marcel’s unwillingness to upset Harry would be enough to keep him silent – at least, ALMOST all the way up until this rather extreme point. But the moment Harry’s safety is on the line – there’s no way in hell Marcel’s talking. I slip an aching, stiff and bloody hand into Marcel’s and he squeezes it appreciatively – which OUCH.

Harry runs his hands over his face and into his hair. “And he was doing the same thing to you, Liam? God. I’m gonna murder Irwin.”

Liam laughs darkly. “We’re gonna have to do more than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why?”

“I mean we’re gonna have to get him arrested. Like, locked away. For good. And I’m not kidding – he was threatening your LIFE, Harry.”

“How do you mean?!”

“As in, I told Brendon to leave Marcel alone, after the first time, or I’d take it straight to you. Couple days later Ashton gets me and tells me that if I even consider jumping ship, he’d knife you. I wouldn’t doubt him either: he’s done it before. I, uh, I kinda got into a fight with him at that point – a pretty bad one-“

“Oh God, yeah-“ I interrupt, looking at Zayn. Zayn’s still staring at Liam but I remember what he said about that fight. “I remember you saying, Zayn.”

“Yeah, yeah, I did – but, Liam, you didn’t say any of this. You told me it wasn’t Ashton! God, why didn’t you tell me -“

“Because your life’s on the line, too, brother.” Liam rests his head on his arms, propped up on the table. “Ashton’s instructions were pretty clear. I stay as his guy. If he gets ANY wind of me, uh, leaking secrets or ‘back-stabbing’ as he put it, they come down and they come down hard. Harry, Zayn, Leeroy, everyone. Anyone. Not a word. Not a word to anybody. I should’ve – I KNOW I should’ve done something, Goddammit, but... I couldn’t risk it. I have enough dirt on Ashton to put him away for years and he knows it. The son of a bitch is a Goddam psychopath. It got to the point where I was considering going to the Police but-“ he swallows “-that was the point where Ashton made it pretty clear that if I did, Brendon and Si would be more than happy to – to damn fucking avenge him. That’s – that’s why you got wrecked in school the other day, Marcel, and it IS my fault, because if I’d just gotten out while I could they might’ve left you alone – if I’d said something – while it was easy – there was nothing I could say – there was no one I could even talk to without risking one of you getting hurt and oh God. Oh God, I’m sorry. Oh, God...”

There’s absolutely nothing but open and pained truth in Liam’s expression. The guy looks like he’s about to cry. My stomach clenches.

We’re all silent.

God, I think I’m going to be sick. Again.

Harry says in a horrified sort of way, “and you just... LET me beat you up – the other day – God, Liam, how did we let this happen-“ abruptly he raises his head and almost in an instinctive and unformed plea for forgiveness he reaches both hands out across the table towards Liam. Liam kind of reaches out as well and they end up gripping each other’s hands, looking at each other grimly.

“We’re gonna sort this out, okay?” Harry says to him, and the guy actually does start crying.

“Damn right we are,” says Louis. He sounds ferocious. “We’re with you all the way. From right now.”

“God, I’ve missed you guys,” says Zayn, choking a little.

Louis turns to him and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Zayn, man, Liam. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t even know how sorry we are-“ says Harry. He’s still gripping Liam, the two of them clinging to each other.

“It’s been hell without you,” Zayn says quietly.

“Evidently, yeah,”

“When we all – when we walked away from you guys we were welcomed by all th’ people who hate you, Harry, or are scared of ya – before we even knew what was happening. And then through these bastards we somehow end up in the wrong parts of town and with the wrong kinds of people, and when I say some of these people are awful, I mean, like – Ashton kind of awful-“

“God, I swear I will end him. I will end him if it’s the last thing I do.” Liam says abruptly, sitting up. Harry lets him pull back.

Liam’s hands ball up into fists and he stares out the window.

“Only if you let me help,” says Louis darkly.

I watch Harry pass a quick glance at the expressions on everyone’s faces as they all voice their inclusion. “Consider us all in – we need a battle plan.”

“What, you serious?”

“Deadly. I mean it. Liam, you say you’ve got enough dirt on Ashton to get him imprisoned-“

“-don’t suppose enough to justify capital punishment?”

“Ahah Louis, sadly I’m guessing not. But let’s do it. I'm serious.”

“Can we? Liam, man, can we actually simply just head over to the Police station right now and be done with him?” Niall looks set to run out of the ice-cream parlour.

Liam huffs. “Not exactly. Ashton’s pretty careful. He takes care to cover his tracks, and then threatens the people who helped him do it or knew about it to the point where they wouldn’t dare go against him. Actually most of the time he doesn’t threaten them – he just sells them cheap pot. Or crack, or pills. He only started threatening me because I told him I’d be going to you if he didn’t stop...”

“Well if he felt threatened enough by Harold to start tightening his grip, then for God’s sake let’s prove him right and take this bastard down," says Louis. "Liam, tell us everything you know.”

What a cliché. I look at Marcel. He’s staring at the tabletop.

I look back at the group. As Liam knits this kind of horrifying image of Ashton’s history of assault and drug abuse and Grievous Bodily Harm and avoiding arrest and all sorts of assorted crimes, I watch the guys listening to him.

Niall is sat looking like someone has set his parade on fire and then rained on it – mostly confused and outraged. But there’s an unmissable kind of euphoric undercurrent in his expression, and it sparks whenever he turns to make a comment to Zayn. And Zayn answers him with smiles and glances that aren’t quite in tandem with the macabre topic of discussion. Which is how I realise that, actually, there’s a similar kind of electricity in everybody sat at this table. Sure, Harry and Liam are neither of them the picture of perfect serenity, but Louis’ body-language is interesting: already he’s shifted closer to Zayn and is leaning in co-conspiratorially as if this group is HIS group – possessive and proud of it. Louis has staked his claim on these boys.

Only now, seeing them back together, can I begin to fully comprehend how much it must’ve hurt these boys to split apart from each other.

I give a huge internal sigh.

Marcel catches it and we share a long, tired look.

“D’you wanna go home soon? We can probably leave them to it for a bit...”

“I was gonna say exactly the same thing,” I lean on my arm and smile, my back to everyone but Marcel. “Ugh, I don’t know about you, but I’m completely wiped.”

“Well, I have more energy than I would if I were dead, so…” he chuckles like it’s funny. It is, actually. I dunno, maybe I’m just really tired.

“Fair point.”

“Mm.”

“Marcel?”

“Mm?”

“Why ice-cream?”

“Uh,” he smiles at me, looking shy. “Well, I’ve always thought that death is like drinking body-temperature water: it’s just… bland. Really bland an unexceptional and exactly the same as what’s inside you already, because for whatever reason, if you know you’re about to die, then you are, to all intents and purposes…”

“Already dead?”

“Yes! And, um, I was just trying to think of things which are about as far removed from lukewarm water as I could get. To like, I don’t know, maybe wake me up a little – remind me I’m alive. Y’know, really strong flavours and experiences that are so unlike what’s inside you that it just kind of makes you take a step back and think – woah – okay – there’s a world out here that’s colourful and interesting and… yeah.”

“Hm… yeah, I suppose – ice-cream’s kinda shockingly cold-“

“And really sweet! Like, it’s so unlike… yeah. Everything.”

“Yeah, yeah, I see that…” it’s an interesting idea. “I like your thinking.”

“Haha, thanks. The only other thing I could think of was really spicy Indian food – y’know, like curry and naan bread-“

“Ooh, like REAL Peshwari naan! Not the God-awful fibreglass stuff you buy in Tesco’s-”

“Yes! And real Tandoori chicken- “ we have an enthusiastic conversation about all our favourite Indian foods until we’re laughing with glee at the very thought of the world of textures and tastes.

Grinning, I say “ah, I really want Indian now.” I’m actually almost hungry. The ugly ball of tension and nausea inside me is starting to unravel – just a little.

“God, me too. I just didn’t think I could stand there on the roof and be like ‘hey, so I’m still alive – can we get a takeaway now?’”

I burst out laughing and it stops the other conversation. People are looking at me.

“You guys doing okay? Sorry, we’re kinda getting a bit into…”

“Into mentally murdering Ashton Irwin.”

“Yeah,” Harry puts his arm around me, worried suddenly. I smile at him. 

“Hazza, we want Indian food.”

His eyebrows go up and he looks at Marcel. After a brief conversation it transpires that leaving the ice-cream parlour would probably be a good idea at this point and yes, these teenage boys are getting hungry. I just kind of desperately want to sleep, and I get steadily more and more anxious as Harry and Marcel spiral into a near argument about our next step. Harry refuses to leave his side just as much as Marcel refuses to let him come home without doing something about Ashton, mostly because we all know Harry will be a wreck until Ashton is finished. I haven’t really been listening, but I think the plan has something to do with Liam going all MI5 and getting in on Ashton doing something verifiably illegal, then tipping off the Police and everybody else just working to ensure that framing him is successful.

Personally I want no part in it. I just want to – I don’t know what I want to do. I want to go home.

No – I want to go round to Harry and Marcel’s house and eat Indian food and play bad chess and laugh at things and have hands that don’t hurt and not feel like I’m going to throw up at any moment and-

I sigh silently and slump onto the table amidst the raised voices and fear. My stomach hurts. Maybe life has given me an ulcer.

“Oh man, D, I’m so sorry – Diana, are you okay? D-“

“I’m fiiiiiiine, Harry,” I say, “just tired.”

“Okay… okay, we’re gonna-“

“MARCEL!” Someone is shrieking oh God who’s shrieking oh God who is that what’s happened what’s happened is Marcel okay what-

Oh, it’s just Eleanor. Oh, it’s okay.

She comes flapping up to our table in a complete whirlwind of worry and noise, and gasps with relief when she sees Marcel sat next to me. There are tears on her face and horror in her eyes and Louis immediately gets up to hug her, calm her, console her.

“Oh God, Oh God, he’s okay. Okay. Okay he’s okay. Oh my God,” Louis wraps his arms around her and she sobs into his shoulder, hiding his face in her hands.

There’s a bit of an awkward pause while nobody knows what to say. I, however, am just watching the couple with a little smile on my face. They make me feel a bit less lost. Love does that.

I want to reach out and take Harry’s hand, but my hands are hurting too much, so I keep them under the table, shaking with the effort of healing themselves. I want Harry. I want peace.

Eleanor resurfaces a moment later, and Marcel – bless him, Marcel – clambers over the back of me and Harry to give her a hug, smiling and assuring her while she fans herself with her phone, trying and failing to stop crying.

I’m distancing, I can feel it. I’m slipping quietly away into myself. I want Harry to come with me, into a quiet place and just stop thinking for a while. After all, but for him, I’m not really needed in the world at the moment: Marcel is safe, Eleanor is here, tying up all loose ends with the boys, who are all back together again. She’s kind of staring shyly at Liam and Zayn, before saying:

“So... you guys all friends again, hm?”

Louis sits back down and pulls Eleanor onto his lap, saying to her and to everyone. “Definitely. Actually, I wanna apologise to you, Zayn and Liam, man, for being such an arrogant douchebag-“

“Louis, seriously, you weren’t-“

“No, I was though. Thanks, Zayn, but if I’d been willing to just swallow the past a little bit more, Harold here probably would’ve been begging you to come back years ago – and Niall, you little two-faced son of a gun I cannot believe you – you and Zayn-“

Niall laughs loudly as Louis grins at him. 

Liam laughs. “Zayn, you kept that particular bromance pretty quiet too, man-“ he bro-fists him.

“Ay, Liam, man what can I say – me and Niall were made for each other.”

“Got the best taste in music I’ve ever seen, my brother-“ Niall claps Zayn on the back and they’re all bantering along and Harry and Marcel are filling in a wide-eyed Eleanor with all the long afternoon’s events and I just kind of... zone out.

My ice-cream has melted to a perfectly stilled pool of gentle colour and richness. At least it’s warm now. I gently remove my spoon, as so not to disturb it. It’s sits there, peaceful, opaque – gorgeous.

I’m vaguely participating in the conversation and decisions which eventually have Eleanor take Louis’ car and drive me and Marcel back to the Styles’ house, and I vaguely think about what I’m writing when I text my mum and ask her if it’s okay if I stay at the Styles’ house for the evening and vaguely aware of Eleanor’s nervous and upset kind of monologue in the car and Marcel putting his head on my shoulder and the two of us just kind of drifting off to sleep in the back...

“C’mon, let’s get you in, D – yeah, no it’s okay Marcel, I’ve got her. No, you go on in, darling. Diana,” says a gentle voice, someone stroking a stray hair from my face. I jolt a little.

“Ells, sorry! I – uh, didn’t mean to fall asleep-“

“No worries,” she smiles down at me.

I clamber out the car and thank her profusely for everything. I kind of have a vague awareness that something is happening somewhere that might be kind of important, but the only important bit seems to be that Harry isn’t here right now. Which is okay. I’m okay. I can wait for him.

We catch up to Marcel and smile at each other as we reach the door. I turn and hug Eleanor.

“You’re gonna be okay, right? If I leave you here? I mean, I’m gonna have to go give Lou back his car...” she bites her lip.

“Eleanor, we’ll be fine. We’re home now.” I smile at her.

“Yeah, and we’re totally gonna order Indian,” Marcel turns and I wave goodbye, trying to put her mind at ease.

“D,” Marcel says, looking down.

“Yes?”

“Please don’t tell mum.” I understand him perfectly.

“’Don’t tell mum’ is kinda the story of my life – don’t worry.”

We share a long, loaded look, and then go in, together.

Anne makes a huge fuss, of course, but I let Marcel lead that conversation. He paints the unusual day’s events as, yeah, a bit of a weird time, with the major upsets being him feeling not okay and the strangest part being sitting in an ice-cream parlour with Harry and ALL of his friends, united as one. Anne nearly laughs in delight, distracted by this development from worry about where we’ve been all this time.

“Those boys – I’ve always worried how Harry feels without Liam – he was such a well-meaning boy – and SO hard working! I think he’s a good influence on Harry.” After nattering at us for a bit while we slump over chairs in the kitchen, she asks us what we want for tea.

“Indian? D’you want to get a take away? Sure! Of course, Marcel, darling. That’ll be quite nice, actually. I’ve Pat coming over for coffee in the evening, and it’ll be convenient not to have any messy cooking to deal with...”

Me and Marcel don’t say much.

We sit in Harry’s room and eat the various hot curries straight out of quintessential foil take away trays with the neat little paper covers and illegible names scribbled on top, and the food is all glorious and rich and piping hot and it feels okay to be here.

“You’re right, y’know,” I’m holding some hot Peshwari naan between my hands. There’s still blood on them and it’s dried to the point where it’s actually difficult to move my fingers. The warmth and moisture of the bread loosens the tightness of the newly healing scabs, though.

“Mm?” His mouth is full of curry and rice. He looks up at me, eyes wide, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“This is life-giving.” I beam at him. He swallows and beams back.

And it is: there’s something about fresh, hot food – particularly foods so bright and cheerful looking, nestled on Harry’s carpet. I eat myself silly and, though I never do have a big appetite, and considering I threw up earlier, I manage to get down quite a lot before feeling too full to continue.

“Mm, I feel stuffed.”

“I feel ALIVE,” Marcel stares into the distance.

“Is that weird for you?”

“Totally. I wasn’t expecting to see the end of today. Now everything looks unexpected,” he smiles at me.

We’re both quite tired, and Marcel asks me if I’d mind if he just took a lie down for a bit. I say not a problem and he climbs up onto Harry’s bed and sighs deeply into the pillow.

There’s a silence here that’s humming gently and is occasionally lifted a bit by Anne and Pat laughing downstairs, or clinking cups and saucers together. The room is also filled with the warming smell of Indian food, which isn’t a smell I think I’ll ever get bored of.

As I had fully anticipated, Marcel is out like a light almost immediately. But only sleeping. Only a switch on ‘off’, rather than a blown fuse or ripped-out wire. He’s okay now. He’s safe.

Dear God, what a day: I’m run into the ground.

I sit and watch Marcel. He doesn’t snore so much as vibrate when he inhales, but it’s deeply soothing, listening to him breathe. I contemplate calling Alison for a while, but I don’t really feel like talking to someone with less to say than me.

I want Harry to be here.

I check my phone and – oh good, I’ve got a message from him:

‘Hey :) we’re all heading to the police station now – do u want me 2 come back? hows marcel? x’

I smile a little and try to text without moving my fingers. The scabs on the end of them are jagged shark’s teeth of stretched dirty yellow and black and a maroonish brown. It bloody hurts.

‘depends – do u want to come back? marcels sleeping. we’re good here if u want to stay. hows it going? he incarcerated yet? x’

I almost add that I’m missing him hugely, but I don’t want him to come running back just because I’m feeling sad or something.

Instead I just sit on his floor and hug my knees, watching and listening and absorbing the glow of the light off the band posters.

I decide to get up and turn the light off so that Marcel can sleep better. While I’m at it I go into his room and bring back his blanket, draping it over him. I take possibly too much joy in tucking him in and seeing him so peaceful.

I sit back down on the carpet in the dark, tossing my phone from hand to hand for a while, waiting for Harry to reply and the day to end.

He calls me.

“Hello?”

“D,” he sighs. “Hi, how you doing?”

“Oh, fine... I’m fine. What’s going on down your end?” I get up quickly and leave the room, taking care not to disturb Marcel. I shut the door and lean on it.

“Well, Liam and Niall have taken a Police car down to some house where Liam said Ashton sometimes goes to deal or something – Liam made a few calls – he’s ridiculously connected – it’s weird. But apparently Ashton’s there now, so it’s worked out pretty well.” He pauses. “Louis and Eleanor have taken Zayn to go round up other people who might want to help testify against Ashton if it comes to a court case or something – I don’t know – to be honest, I don’t know HALF of what’s going on, D. I think... I think I’m not in a place right now where I can be angry or... or energetic enough to really engage. I just feel...”

“Drained? Tired?”

“Um, more like thankful..? Is that weird?”

I smile across the dim half-lit landing. “No, that makes perfect sense. I’m thankful too.”

“Yeah... look, I kinda wanna come home now. If that’s okay-“ oh Harry, you adorable prat why on earth wouldn’t that be okay “-I’m just feeling... yeah.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I get that,” it comes out in a whisper.

“You okay then, D?” 

I pause for a long time. “No. Not really.”

He pauses for a long time as well. “No, me neither.”

“Harry..."

“Yes?”

“I... I still have blood all over my hands, and scabs and probably dirt and infections and like, all sorts. Will you – will you come and help me? I’m not sure I can deal with it on my own...” my voice cracks a little and I think it gives away just how much I want him here.

“Diana... definitely. I’m on my way right now.”

“Thanks Harry,” I whisper, but he’s already hung up. I smile at the floor and shuffle down to sit outside the warm darkness of Harry’s room, safe at last. Maybe not okay, but safe.


	16. It's a London System

Harry comes home pretty quickly, and finds me where I’m sat, outside his bedroom door, arms on my knees, head on my arms.

“Heyy, Diana,”

What’s that line from Jess Scott: ‘When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different... You know that your name is safe in their mouth.’

“Hey, Harry,” I get to my feet and he puts his arms around me.

He kind of hums and sighs, resting his head on mine and enveloping me. Instead of air and the unknown next to my skin, there’s Harry. It’s so safe here. So much safer than out in the rest of the world. I feel better already.

“Marcel in there?” He says, letting go of me and putting a hand on my face. I nod and he moves into the room. I turn to watch his reflection in the mirror, cheek tingling where his fingers drifted. He kneels beside the bed and just looks at his brother for a moment. 

I can barely see a silhouette of him, and in the half-light he looks like those idyllic little triplicates you get with a child kneeling in the evening and saying their prayers – thanking God.

Then he gets up and kisses Marcel’s forehead and I look away, smiling. Harry really cares.

He comes out a moment later and wordlessly shuts the door again. He reaches for me and takes my forearms in his hands.

“C’mere, lemme have a look… God, what did you DO?” he breathes, fingers tracing down my arms and lingering there, barely touching my hands. He’s staring down at them, turning them over. They do look awful. I can’t look at them. I’m almost ashamed to have HIM look at them – like it’s this dirty and dishonourable thing – I have to remind myself that Harry really cares. He does. He cares. And love is stronger than all reason and instinctual abhorrence.

“Alright, let’s get you cleaned up,” he swiftly pushes some of my loose hair back out of my face and smiles at me sincerely, one hand on my head. I just lean in to his hand for a moment, then follow him into the bathroom. He insists that I just sit on the edge of the bathtub for a moment while he fills the sink up with warm water.

He finds some antiseptic in the medicine cabinet and pours a little bit into the sink bowl. The smell of it mingles with the steam and makes my nose flare.

“You know I only know you’re supposed to use this stuff ‘cause of you,” he smiles at me. I smile a little back, remembering the first time I came here. It makes me a little fluttery to think that he has such a strong memory of that too.

“Harry, d’you mind if I, uh, take my shirt off?” I say suddenly, standing up. He turns and gives me this LOOK and I go bright red oh my God Harry- “no- no, I have a top on undernea- God, sorry, I just – I think I’ve got blood on the sleeves and I should take it off… I didn’t mean – sorry – ARGH.“

He chuckles, putting the TCP back, then moves away from the medicine cabinet, wrapping his arms around my neck and leaning in to me with this almighty grin on his face. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to jump you,”

“Good grief you are awful,” I mutter, still red. He laughs. I step back a little and unbutton my blouse. There IS blood on the end of the sleeves – it’s run all the way down my arms like scars. I grit my teeth a little and gingerly shake the shirt off over my hands. I wince as it catches some of the thin membranes that have formed over the gashes on my fingers. I shut my eyes and breathe through my nose.

“You’ve really hurt yourself, D,” says Harry. I open my eyes, stood in front of him, shaking slightly in nothing but a dark blue tank top. He’s just watching me tremble. There’s sadness in his face.

“Uh, yeah, um…” I look down at my hands, but he suddenly steps in and kisses me.

I’m taken a little by surprise, but it’s maybe the first thing I’ve felt since the library which cuts right through the pain and the haze and the headache and the vague nausea that’s lingering behind my chest. His hands come up and gently touch my bare shoulders, warming them and moving me right down to the core. His breath in mine is just quiet and sincere and lovely, really. Like it brings back a memory of what it means to not be hurting.

We break apart and he stays right next to me, nose touching mine, fingers brushing my skin. I can still feel him breathing. I’d’ve thought this would definitely NOT help me breathe easier, but I find myself calmer with him right here. His forehead bumps mine.

“Earlier…” he whispers, and my eyes flutter closed again. “When Liam said you were the real thing… he was referring to a conversation me and him always used to have about Danielle…” he raises a hand to my face, and I can feel him trembling a little bit when he says “we always used to agree that she wasn’t the real thing. She wasn’t somebody anyone could really do more than like quite a lot.”

My breathing is very slow and steady and deep. He kisses me again, holding my face to his for longer. His fingers brush the skin beneath my jawline as he strokes my hair back slowly. My eyes flutter closed. This is completely glorious.

“She wasn’t someone you could fall in love with...”

I sigh. There’s nothing more perfect than this. I tentatively lift my arms to hold and be held. We stay like that for a while, him stroking my hair, me with my eyes closed, arms around him, an ear to his chest. I can feel his heartbeat beneath me.

Eventually the smell of TCP helps me regain my senses.

There are things that need to be done. “So…”

“Sorry, yeah,” he chuckles. We break away and smile at each other. I go a little red again at his expression. It’s not a look that will ever leave me. It’s like – how could I EVER doubt that life is worth living – when there’s even a possibility of having someone look at you like that? I realise I’m breathing a little heavily.

He grins. “Okay, come here…” he says and turns and wets a cloth in the sink, wringing out and soaking it in antiseptic-laced water. Then he tenderly takes one of my arms in his hands and there’s this pause where we both just kind of breathe, and then he starts wiping the dried blood from my skin.

“Oh God, that feels nice,” I say, almost startled by it. We sit on the edge of the bath in a hush as he gently cleans the filth off my arms. It feels amazing, to be honest, watching all the dried stains disappear. The warm dampness makes my skin particularly prone to extreme tingling when he touches me. He moves onto my palms and, taking particular care not to press too hard, rubs away a lot of the flaky dark brown with a furrowed brow. My fingers are still gristly and visceral and throb. A lot.

“Okay, um, how d’you wanna do this?” He asks me, emptying the sink of the tainted water and rinsing out the cloth thoroughly. 

He means my fingers; I’ve really made a mess of them – there’s not much more damage he can do, no matter how much he might worry.

“Uh,” I sigh. “Well it’s gonna hurt like hell no matter how we do it. I might just leave my hands in the water to soak a while, if you want to refill the sink…”

“I got a better idea, hang on-“ he goes into the cupboard and takes out a plastic bowl and fills that instead. Then we settle down onto the tiles and, very gingerly, I lower my fingertips into the warm antiseptic mixture.

I suck in a sharp breath. God that hurts – my fingers feel like they’re inflating rapidly and shredding me as they do it. I squeeze my eyes shut and lower my whole hand in, shaking. Then the other one. I gasp.

“Shh, s’okay… s’okay…” Harry rubs my arm a little and that helps. It stops the sick feeling travelling up my limbs and through the rest of me – protects me from myself.

“God…”

When I open my eyes he’s looking at me with deep concern. “You sure you’re okay, Diana? You really tore yourself up. Maybe we should take you-“

“No, no please don’t. Um, um, could you just... talk about something else – please – distract me.”

We stare at each other for a moment, and then he says. “Okay, well… okay. I do wanna say, actually, that it was kind of… amazing, what you did on that rooftop…”

I laugh once. “It really wasn’t-“

“No, D, it was! I heard what you were saying to Marcel, and I’m pretty sure I could have bodily dragged him off that rooftop and it wouldn’t have changed anything that was going on in his head to put him there in the first place – like, I don’t know HOW to help him – to say things he needs to hear… when I said I was thankful, before, that was mostly for you.”

I don’t know how to respond. I never learnt how to deal with love. All I can do is reciprocate it.

“YOU saved his life, Diana,” he adds quietly. “You did! I mean, you get these things. I might love Markle to bits but that doesn’t mean it makes any difference. If it weren’t for you, he’d still be standing on that rooftop, like, mentally. Even if I’d dragged him home and put him in bed. If that makes any sense. You were able to – to just stand there and convince him that life’s worth living – using a CHESS metaphor, for God’s sake. I mean – I don’t know. You’re just – yeah. You’re the real thing. Even better than the real thing, in fact.”

I smile. “I guess... I do understand where he was… mentally... but, like, him and you – you’ve saved my life just as much.”

“How do you mean?”

“Like,” I duck my head, slightly ashamed. But this is Harry. It’s okay to say things to Harry. “I just keep picturing Marcel’s suicide attempt as these – these, uh, deep scars on his wrists. And I understand THAT. I mean… Harry, I’ve never actually carried out a suicide attempt, but I have got… so close, like, um, cut… myself, so deeply that I have wondered if I would die.” Wow, I must be seriously sure of both him and myself to even consider saying out loud things which might stick in the air for years. 

He’s staring at me, I can feel that he is. Then he shuffles over and pulls me onto his lap, his head buried in my neck. His words are hot against my skin. “God, God Diana, I’m so sorry-“

“It’s not your fault, Harry. It’s no one’s fault that this sort of stuff happens. I keep trying to explain this.” Wow what is thinking right now-

“Well I don’t hear anyone else apologising, so on behalf of the world…” he clings to me hard for a moment and I kind of smile down at my hands under the water. It’s hard to be afraid of them when Harry’s here.

Harry helps me clean them about half an hour later. Well, he does most of the cleaning. I just kind of let him dab the cloth onto my fingers and try not to gasp or cry out when it frakin’ WRECKS. All the while Harry sits there going:

“GOD! Sorry! I’m so sorry, ah, sorry… crap, sorry – God… sorry, Diana, sorry-“

“Harry-“ I’m gritting my teeth so hard I’m probably damaging my skull “-quit apologising – OUCH – ah, no, no it’s okay – I’m okay… God,” I’ve unintentionally yanked my hand away from his. I look down at my fingers, wincing. He’s pulled off some of the scabs and there’s a lot of this clear, yellow liquid leaking out from around my fingernails. I’ve seen this before – it’s all a bit sickeningly familiar actually. There’s not so much blood though, which is good. “The antiseptic’s making my hands sting like crazy, ugh… Harry? Um, you okay?”

I lean around to try and see his face, which he’s hiding in his hands. Then he gives a bit of a sob. 

“Oh, God, Harry, I’m so sorry-“ I don’t want to make him look at my hands, so I can’t reach out to him. He’s crying oh my God he’s crying Harry I’m sorry-

“No- no, it’s okay. I’m okay. Sorry. I just-“ he unwraps himself and turns to put his forehead on my shoulder, shaking. “I just hate this. I hate that you’re hurting, even if it’s neither of our faults – and – oh God, Marcel tried to commit suicide, oh God-“ he loses it for a while, but I know how THAT feels too, so I just keep telling him to breathe in a low and steady voice, letting him cling to me and listening to his near hysterics and letting him cry and cry and cry.

Eventually he pulls himself upright. “Sorry.” He sniffs. “Sorry – oh, man, I think – I just – needed to cry,” he laughs a little, rubbing his eyes fiercely with the ends of his jumper.

I smile. He’s okay. Or, he THINKS he is, and that’s an incredible distinction. God but I love this guy. “Which totally makes sense. I think it’s been one hell of a day all around, really…”

“Yeah… Yeah! I mean, I got my best friends back! Hahaha wow that’s weird,” he laughs, shaking his hair out with his hands and grinning tiredly.

“That’s gotta feel pretty good though,”

“Oh, yeah, absolutely… God, poor Liam. I just wanna – argh, I wish I could make up for the past two years. To him AND Zayn. Louis was right – we’ve been complete douchebags. We could’ve avoided this whole mess if we’d just ADMITTED... God, Danielle was NOT worth it,” he shakes his head, looking mildly appalled.

“So you all screwed up a little. So did I. So did Marcel, frankly. We’re dealing with it. That’s what we do. And by ‘we’ I mean humanity.” He looks at me. “Sorry, that may’ve been… a little insensitive…”

“...But completely true. God, I swear, D…” he’s looking at me like that again. I involuntarily smile. It’s hard not to.

“Harry?”

“I think, Diana,” he shuffles forward and picks up the cloth again. “Hang on, I’m trying to figure out what I’m actually… saying…” he gently lifts my wrists and wraps my hands in the warm, steaming cloth. We both look down at my hands. They look all wrapped up and warm and snug, and although, yes, they’re still throbbing and stinging a little from being cleaned, they feel like they’re alright now. Or that they will be. Harry holds them in his own, keeping the cloth in place.

“Okay…”

“Mm?”

“Okay, Diana. I know what I’m trying to say now. We’re, like, what, 17? And I know saying ‘I love you’ before, like, 25 or whatever is ridiculous and naïve and all that jazz… but… I love you? I want you to be okay – and I know you might not ever be, and I know Marcel might never be either, but I think I’m feeling a bit ‘in the moment’ right now – after – after Marcel, so, like, right now, I love you, and I am so, SO thankful for you... yeah.”

He’s looking at me. It’s the hardest thing to do, to look up and meet his eyes. I’ve never been worth loving, never had any particular virtues – just because I’ve suffered some shit and understand crap when it comes along – that doesn’t make me someone worth loving. I’m feeling guilty already, like I’ve somehow tricked him into saying this. Like I’ve manipulated someone good into believing that I’m even remotely in his league. I sure as hell don’t deserve anything he’s given me, but… but maybe I don’t deserve any of the blood on my hands, either. Maybe… maybe I can believe, while Harry’s here, that I don’t deserve the pain I inflict on myself. Maybe I can’t see the romance, but I can see the tragedy while he’s with me, and if that’s a small triumph, well, most triumphs are.

I meet his eyes. “Love you, Harry. More than life.”

“Love you too.”

We both chuckle a little bit. 

“Yeeah, maybe you’re right – it may well be naïve to say that, but, uh, I’ve kinda learnt… not… to – to underestimate what happens to us at this kind of age, y’know? This may not be ‘real’ love-“ I load my voice with irony, seeing as I can’t make quotation marks in the air “-but just because people say that this isn’t ‘real’ love doesn’t mean it isn’t... like, I think what I mean is they’ll probably say that what Marcel’s feeling isn’t ‘real’ depression, or that we don’t have ‘real’ problems, but just because it isn’t ‘real’ doesn’t mean he wouldn’t 'really' be dead, y’know? Their status may be criticised, but the consequence of these things is undeniable... Love is life-giving, regardless of how ‘real’ it is.”

He’s staring at me. “God… yeah…” He takes the cloth from my hands. “That’s very much the truth. And GOD – D, that just looks so painful,”

“Mng, it is a bit…”

“Sorry – I’ll be careful – we should bandage them up… uh, here-“ he reaches around behind him and takes some toilet paper, dabbing my fingers dry. Then, very, very gingerly he dabs at the actual open wounds.

I breathe through my teeth for a few minutes, eyes closed. Ouch ouch ouch ouch bloody hell ow ouch ouch ouch owww-

“There… okay,” he throws the paper into the bin and then hops up to get some bandage rolls from the cupboard. “Okay, uh, d’you want me to just…?”

“Yeah – yeah, go for it. Um, do it quite tightly-“

“Won’t that hurt you?”

“Well, yeah, but it will hurt once, whereas loose wrappings will just rub all over the place and stuff will get in and we’ll have to do this whole schkboodle again, and that, frankly, will hurt more.”

“Haha, okay.”

He starts wrapping my fingers, weaving the bandage strips slowly around my hands. It’s so therapeutic. This pain is of a duller type, and I can almost feel the satisfaction of my skin as it works out that it’s now being held in a place where it can finally start to knit itself back together again.

“Of course…” I say quietly, watching him work, “I’m not sure I’d mind…”

“…mind what?”

“Having you look after me. If we had to do this again, I mean…”

He flashes a cheerful smile up at me, and I nearly burst.

When he’s done he pulls me up by the elbows and hugs me a lot, and I don’t ever want to go. I don’t want to leave.

But leave I have to – for now.

It’s like, half 11, and I have a text from my mum saying she’s going to bed, and would I mind locking up the house when I get in. I sigh heavily and tell Harry that I should probably be heading home soon.

He’s ducked into his room, and comes out with Marcel in his arms, small enough to be bundled up in his blanket. My heart explodes as I watch him carry his little brother back into his own bed. He comes out of Marcel’s room and kisses me swiftly.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“Uh,” I brush some hair out of my face, flushed and momentarily unable to focus. “Oh, um, I should probably head home now.”

He sighs. “Yeah, probably. Okay then – I can drive you home, if you like?”

“I thought you didn’t have a car?”

“I can use mum’s,” he says cheerfully, and he makes a motion like he’s about to take my hand, then stops. He glances at me and then says “I bet you don’t weigh much.”

“Excuse me?!”

“Piggy-back. C’mon, get up here-“

“What- no- Harry!”

“Shhh! Marcel’s sleeping!” He laughs at me and I have no choice really but to jump onto his back and cling for dear life as he trundles down the stairs, holding my legs up. I guess I DON’T weigh much, because he seems to be coping just fine.

Much to my embarrassment, he pops open the door to the living room and interrupts Anne and Pat to ask if he can drive me home. I'm holding my blouse balled up over my hands, so they don’t notice anything weird – except for the fact that I’m on Harry’s back, obviously.

It’s quite fun, actually, I gotta admit.

Anne says that’s fine and, after asking after Marcel, says goodnight to me and Harry carries me outside, leaning down and laughing as I try to open the front door from around his neck.

I forget that I’m not really wearing much though, and gasp, fresh into the February night.

“D?”

“COLD!”

“Oh, good grief, sorry – you’re not wearing a shirt! Okay, hop down – here – take this-“ he’s clicked open the car and pulled out a grey zip up hoodie that looks black in this light. Teeth chattering, I take it without a question and wrap it around myself, clambering into the front seat as he gets into the driver’s.

We drive mostly in silence until we approach my house and I let out an involuntary sigh that I’d mostly tried to keep quiet.

“What is it?”

“Ahh, nothing.”

“D-“

“Seriously, nothing. I’m just tired.”

“Diana, you gotta talk to me. I’m never gonna believe that anything is ‘nothing’ ever again. Not after today.” He doesn’t look away from the road when he says it, but I feel the sincerity there.

“Okay that’s fair. Um... I’m just – I hate my house.”

He looks at me. “Really? Why?”

“I dunno – well, I do. I think it’s because... it’s not really a ‘home’, y’know? Even our last house wasn’t a home.” We’ve stopped outside it and it’s totally dark inside. “I just... I DO stuff to myself in there that’s... it’s not right. It’s scary and horrible and dark. I just – yeah. I don’t like it.”

We sit and look at it for a while.

“As a house, it’s perfectly functional...” I say after a moment. Harry’s looking sad again and I don’t like that.

“But it’s not a home?” I shake my head, snuggling into his jumper. “What is home? For you?”

“You.”

We stare at each other.

Eventually he comes in with me, and I think he just meant to get me settled and in bed before heading home to sleep himself, but he ends up holding me as I drift off. A safe harbour that’s strong and real, in a darkness that makes everything seem a little fantastic.

Life’s a bloody mess, but I can’t see any of that with my eyes closed. And all I can hear is Harry breathing. All I can feel is him, and the rest of the world may as well not exist for all it means to me. He falls asleep too, and we lose consciousness, safe, and completely at home with each other.


	17. The Light-Square Bishop

The next few weeks are weird. In the same way that the rest of my life will probably be weird:

Harry does actually take up the role of changing the bandages on my hands, and it never fails to touch me deeply. The kind of care and tenderness in his face when he does it makes me feel wracked with grief for what I’ve done – to both him and myself. The scabs around my fingers eventually fade to a sore looking redness, which Harry kisses at almost every opportunity. Can’t complain too much. Haha.

Marcel has this zany kind of energy which makes him twitchy and hyper-enthusiastic about EVERYTHING. Unless he’s fallen silent, in which case I just let him sit and contemplate. I like watching the light in his eyes when he’s like that, because even though he sometimes seems to be looking at dark things in his mind’s eye, he sheds a light on them that only experience can cast.

By the time I’ve gotten good enough to actually beat him at chess, we’re not even playing it every lunchtime anymore, because Marcel frequently comes and hangs out with the rest of us. And – what a gang.

There are no words for it. The group dynamic between the five boys is like a blazing fire – and it ignites like dry wood and oil under a match every time they’re in a room together. It’s attractive and bright and brilliant, not to mention warming and wonderful. Of course it’s a little awkward at first, but the whole Ashton business gives them reason enough to keep coming back to each other, and by the time they’re done with him, it’s clear they’ve only just begun with each other. Liam is endlessly chivalrous – bordering on constantly apologetic – to the point where Louis loses it one day and tells him to stop being so Goddam nice all the time because it makes him feel even worse about the last two years and Liam starts howling about how he’s never going to be able to make up for them either and Niall and Zayn are all WHY CAN’T EVERYONE JUST FORGIVE AND FORGET INSTEAD OF SPENDING THE NEXT TWO MONTHS ARGUING ABOUT WHO IS SORRIEST – but once they’ve all gotten over themselves, they all start to relax right back into their roles and I’ve truly never seen Harry looking so happy. Or any of them, to be honest.

I, however, have never been so close to breaking my promise. It’s not because I’m not happy – I definitely am – but, I don’t know – maybe it’s because death has never been closer.

I try to hide it – from Marcel, from Harry, from everybody, but Ali always used to say that asking for help was half the battle, and as I’m losing the other half...

I find myself standing in my room before school one morning, just holding my deodorant spray – staring at it. I’m actually refusing to move. There’s a fierce battle going on inside my head. It’s not fear that prevents me spraying it on my arms so much as it is the complete understanding of what it will mean. I’m not stupid – I know what a precipice looks like, and I’m standing on one right now.

Thing with Aerosol sprays is that if you keep spraying, they can burn you. I know. I’ve done it. First, second degree burns. You freeze your skin.

Of course, I only did it once, because it didn’t cause enough immediate pain for me. Then the blistering burn on my upper arm just hurt for months. That’s one scar which will never go away.

I’m staring it down. My finger’s on top of the can. Body rigid. God, what am I doing. Oh my God, just put the can down, Diana. Put the can down. Do something. Anything. Shower. Just shower. Just go and shower. You’re okay. You’re fine. Just go and shower.

God. Breathe.

I open my fingers suddenly and it falls onto my carpet with a thud. Shaking slightly, dazed, I turn and march into the bathroom, folding my arms across my chest and not even glancing at the medicine cabinet.

I wasn’t GOING to shower this morning, and I’ll almost certainly be late if I do, but...

I strip off quickly, then sit in the bottom of my bathtub and cry for a while in the warm run of water. God, what is wrong with me. I should be fine. I should be coping. I have my best friend safe and sound, a boyfriend who genuinely loves me, a therapist who is STILL there for me, despite the long distance, and, for the first time, a group of friends around me who are supportive and kind and downright hilarious at all hours of the day.

God, why can’t I do this. Why isn’t this ever going to be a happy ending? Because there’s no doubt in my mind that it won’t be. It doesn’t matter about all the people round me, or even me myself. Sometimes I just hurt, and there’s no rhyme or reason to it. I’ll never be okay, not really.

But maybe I can believe I will be.

To be honest, it makes sense that I’m like this. I see Marcel and all the triggers get pulled. I see scars and falling from rooftops and death and pain when I look at him, but I’m also starting to learn that it’s a price worth paying for having my best friend alive and by my side. Love is bloody expensive. Sometimes it’s when I’m at my happiest and I come home from having spent the evening out with the lads or whatever, and I’ll find myself so comfortable in my own skin that confidence and lack of fear lead me straight to this place. I’ve lived through my own self-harm and someone else’s suicide attempt, and I think they have both equally damaged me.

There’s a sick feeling in my stomach, but I really have to get out of the shower now. I clench my fists and do it, getting dressed again and trying to focus on something else. I blast Harry’s CDs all the way to school, and I’ve completely missed first lesson. Oh well: at least my hair smells nice. I’m fresh. I’m feeling fresh. Let’s blaze it.

I pep talk myself all the way into the building. I’m wondering who will be in frees right now and whether I might just skive the morning and be with people who help me remember that I don’t have to be hurting for the world to be okay.

But then I chicken out just before I get to the room full of people – I’m still not accustomed to large crowds. It still makes me feel panicky and uncomfortable and like everyone is watching me and at one wrong move the entire place will fall silent or something and then one by one they’ll all rise to their feet and turn their faceless forms towards me and nail me into the ground with their ceaseless ugly laughs and they’ll be poison and I’ll be dead before I hit the floor and – okay, definitely not going in there today.

I duck into the girls toilets instead. Big mistake.

There are maybe three or four girls in there, who do literally fall silent and turn to look at me. Shaking a little, I try to move past them. I don’t even need the loo though, oh my God I can’t just turn around and leave oh my God I’ve stopped oh my God okay keep breathing you’re okay Oh God-

“Hey there, D, we were just talking about you!”

Oh CHRIST NOT HELPFUL-

“Um, hi – hi there, Danielle, oh, really?” I say weakly. I don’t want this right now. Why is she looking at me like that.

“Um, yeah we were. Just wondering how someone like YOU got someone like Harry...” she leaves the sentence trailing, looking me up and down with nothing short of disdain. Oh my God I’m going to break down please let me go-

One of her cronies steps forward. “You’re not exactly, y’know, in his league,” she says, making it sound like a genuine continuation to the question rather than a straightforward attack.

“Tell me, he banged you yet?” Says Danielle, turning to a mirror and checking her curls. “Or have you not... reached... that point?” 

She smiles at me. Oh God, I’ve got to get out of here are they even seriously talking about my sex life right now do I even have one oh my God okay breathe in – breathe in RIGHT NOW-

I inhale a little and they’re laughing about something and I don’t really want to be alive right now I should’ve stayed at home and aerosol-sprayed myself in the face until I turned blue. Or red. I stumble backwards out of the door, breathing through my nose and crying a little bit with the strenuous effort of staying upright.

I stand in the quiet corridor, staring at the doors of the sixth form area. Maybe I should just go to lessons. I really, REALLY don’t want to go in there. A laugh reaches me through the toilet doors and I scrunch my eyes up.

“D?”

My eyes flap open. “Liam!”

“Hey... You okay?” He’s just ducked out of the study room and is looking at me with real concern.

I’m about to brush him off. I don’t need everyone to know how pathetic I am – and I particularly don’t want to be psychoanalyzed today – but no. Liam. I can trust Liam. He’s one of my friends. Friends. Friends talk to each other. That's how friendship goes.

And I don’t have to share anything I don’t want to – all of which is advice my therapist has given me recently. I’ve been taking ‘How To Have Friends’ lessons with her over the phone. Haha. No, seriously.

“Uh, no. No, not really. Um, having a bad day,” I try to laugh it off, but tears come out instead. Liam steps forward to me.

“Oh, Diana, I’m sorry. Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay,” he hugs me and I cry into his jumper for a moment. Okay, so Liam knows how to deal with hysterical teenage girls. Zayn must’ve given him training.

“Sorry,” I mutter, pulling a tissue out of my bra and blowing my nose – Liam doesn’t bat an eyelid, which is hilarious.

“Hey, s’no problem. What’s up? D’you want me to get Harry?”

I’m about to give I-don’t-know-what-kind-of-answer when the bathroom door opens and Danielle and her harem come out.

“Hey there Liam, big boy.” I visibly flinch and Liam puts two and two together quite nicely.

“Go away, people, you’re not helping yourselves.”

“Well excuse me, who made you judge?”

“I can’t believe you even have the audacity to sound offended by that.” Liam sounds disgusted. I’m staring at his shoes. They’re pretty nice shoes, but they look well loved.

Danielle makes some biting retort and Liam turns. For half a horrible moment I’m fearing a fight, but then he puts his arm around my shoulder, protecting me, shielding me. God, what did I ever do to deserve these people.

“You need to get over yourself. Maybe you would’ve had a hope with Harry if you hadn’t sold yourself out.”

“Hark who’s talking – I’M not the one who’ll hook up with anyone if I’m drunk enough.”

“Takes two to tango,” says Liam cheerfully but turning me away with some force. We walk down the corridor and one of her friends catcalls something rude. Then Danielle shouts:

“WATCH OUT DIANA, OR IT MIGHT NOT BE HARRY WHO YOU END UP IN BED WITH...”

I’m quaking in my boots, and Liam’s practically holding me up.

“God, Danielle is such a cow. Don’t know why any of us ever went out with her,” he mutters. I think we’re headed down to the café. “Hey, you okay?” He rubs my arm with his hand.

“Uh, uh... yeah.”

“Haha, no you’re not. C’mon, don’t let her get to you. She’s perfectly nice when she wants to be but I think she’s just bitter. She screwed up and she knows it. Anyone who stabs Harry in the back lives to regret it. Not least because he’s just a great guy.”

I look up at him. “Very subtle, Liam.”

He meets my eye, surprised, then chuckles. “Yeah, okay, I meant me as well. Here, d’you want a drink, or something?” We sit down at a table and I shake my head. “Alright. Hey, how come you aren’t in... whatever it is you aren’t in right now?”

“Um, well I had a rough morning...” I don’t really want to say more than that. Well, I kind of do, but I’m not sure... not sure of myself, not sure of Liam, not sure of anything much right now.

”Oversleep?” He grins.

“Ahaha, yeah...”

We have a perfectly amicable conversation about lie-ins and getting work done; Liam’s reputation for working stupidly hard comes through pretty strongly, and I relax almost enough to tease him about it. It’s nice, just sitting with him, talking. The café is open plan and wide and airy and it calms me slightly. I don’t know what I’m going to say to Harry, later. I feel an absurd obligation to tell him the truth that no one has ever inspired in me before.

But then when Zayn and Louis turn up, I think maybe I might be able to trial run things.

“Hey, Payno, you disappeared-“

“Hey, D! Put it here, lil' brother-“ Louis holds up his hand for a fist-bump. I grin a little bit and oblige.

“Sorry, Z, we, ah...” he looks at me for the cue.

Deep breath, Diana. “I got ambushed by Danielle in the toilets. She is less than happy.”

“God...”

“What did she say to you?” The two of them sit down with us.

“Um-“ I bite down a laugh. “That’s irrelevant...”

“Hey,” Zayn reaches over and hugs me. “You okay?”

“Um, no. No, not really.” Zayn has his Alison face on and it actually helps. I look around at the three of them. Louis is looking completely at ease in the presence of two of his former sworn enemies. I wonder if that’s how he’s coping. “But guys, are you? I mean, Marcel tried to commit suicide for God’s sake – I just, yeah, I’m not getting how everyone seems okay...”

“We’re guys. We hide our feelings.” Liam says, and Zayn laughs, swinging back on his chair.

“Preach it, Payno,” says Louis. “No, but that’s true actually. I’m not really okay, but I deal with it by just being even more loud and even more annoying than usual-“ as if to demonstrate his point, he kicks the leg of Zayn’s chair under the table and Zayn goes toppling backwards.

They all roar with laughter and I watch them with a smile.

“Ahh, I think I deal with stress by just working myself like – flat out – into the ground, y’know” Liam says to me.

“Aye, you work too hard, Payno-“

“And you don’t work hard enough, Tommo,” they shoot at each other, grinning. Louis claps a hand on his back.

“I’d forgotten how sensible you are, Liam-“

“I hadn’t forgotten how sensible you AREN’T, Louis-“

Zayn grins. “Ahh, I think you’re good for each other.”

“Well, Liam’s certainly good for me. You’ve already done, what, my Maths homework, my Sociology homework...”

“And your Physics...”

It’s very relaxing, sitting here. It makes me feel a little less like I want to go hide in a hole and hyperventilate into the dark. I kind of want break time to arrive, because break time means Harry and I kind of want Harry. I kind of maybe might not know how to say ‘hey I’m not having a good day’, or how to bring up Danielle – particularly as I think one of Harry’s coping methods is to be even more stringently protective than usual. But maybe I don’t have to say any of that. And regardless, I always want Harry to be here: my anxiety for his presence has just sort of become a natural extension of my perpetual anxiety about everything else.

Every time he sees me he grins like his whole life has been made. Not gonna lie, it does make me feel a little bit special. When he does at last wander into the café with Niall and Eleanor today, with his green bandana in his hair and his school bag and his skinny jeans and ughhhh – I can hear Danielle’s words in my head. And I must say, she’s right: how the hell is this guy mine? We are totally, totally not even in the same league – I mean, I wear long sleeves all year around regardless of fashion – pretty much hoodies 24/7 – not to mention my single pair of shoes and drab sense of humour and mediocre intelligence and perennial tendency to self-destruct and my lack of ability to breathe when in the presence of more than two people I don’t know and should I even bother continuing or just break up with him now?

But he likes me anyway, so I guess... I guess it would be weak of me to just let the insecurity take over. And even when I’m not strong enough to battle against it and stand up and greet him in school like I’m as pleased to see him as I actually am, he carries it. He doesn’t seem to care if I’m being all withdrawn and quiet and self-conscious: he’s confident enough for the both of us – it’s like basking in the sunlight and finding that, for once, I’m not going to burn.

I do actually beat Marcel in a chess match, and it’s a momentous day. It’s a Monday, so I’m at the Styles’ house. My mum’s here too, her and Anne discovering that they have a wild twin enthusiasm for making ridiculously elaborate meals which are large enough to feed a small war-time army; frequently the two of them invite all the guys and all their families over for a massive dinner, and it’s an event which I find myself looking forward to every single time. Which is marvellous, really. I never expected to be able to hold my own at any kind of social event involving more than, say, one person. Including me.

But today it’s just the two of our families.

Marcel and I started this chess match earlier at lunch, and I gotta say, even Harry can tell I’m playing well. When he’s bothering to think about it.

“Ooh, ooh I’d move my Castle. The one next to his pawn. Ooh, no actually, don’t do that: he could take the other Bish-“

“Harry. Dear. Shush.” I mutter, staring at the Chess board.

Marcel flashes a grin at his brother, who is lying across the sofa. “We’re gonna have to start playing with timers, D. Else you might beat me.” I ignore him and make a move. It’s a bit of a gamble, but it COULD work... if he buys into my feign that I’m risking my Queenside Knight...

“Ugh, please do. I want to go make out with her and you’ve got me stuck down here waiting for a ruddy Chess match to finish.” Harry turns and winks at me.

“Um, okay. Ew. Thanks for that. Thank you.”

I burst out laughing and fold into a nervous heap on the floor. God, I’m never going to get over him. Ever. At least he has the common sense not to say things like that in public.

“You absolute – flirtatious-“ I struggle for words “-FLIRT.”

“Nice. Very coherent.” He raises his packet of crisps to me in salute. Marcel is staring down at the board. I hold my hands up for a crisp and he chucks one to me.

“Cheers.”

“Anything, my darling.” I grin at him cheerfully. I think Marcel’s buying this. I think he doesn’t believe I’m smart enough to have actually set him up – I think – oh my God yes, I think he’s fallen for it – YES! Marcel has played right into it!

“HA! I mean, mm, darn I can’t believe you just moved there. Scuppered me,” I say, tongue between my teeth. Marcel stares at me.

“You’re joking, right?”

“Nooope. I am totally in control of this endgame right now!“

“Oh my God you set me up-“

“What? What has she done?”

Marcel stares in horror as I knock his one remaining Knight from the board. There’s almost no way he can win this now – not with his back rank wide open.

“No! I don’t believe it!”

“Come on, Marcel, you can still win-“ but it’d take a stupid mistake from me, and THAT’S not going to happen.

“D, what’ve you done?” Harry slides off the sofa and looks at the board with new interest.

“Oh my God, okay, everyone shh-“ Marcel holds up his hands and we sit for a full five minutes while he stares at the pieces. Even Harry is suspended for a moment.

“ARGH! Okay-“ he moves a piece. I respond. It’s pretty clear that I’m going to win this one outright. As I close in on him, an almost delighted smile spread over Marcel’s face. “I can’t believe this...” he mutters.

“Will someone please explain to me what it is you can’t believe?”

“Ah Harry,” I say, and grin and take his hand. “I totally just beat Marcel at Chess.”

“Argh, God, yes you have! I don’t believe it. You genuinely just beat me.” He makes a final move out of check into the only place he can, and I gleefully follow him right back in.

“Say it, D.”

I bite my tongue, looking from Marcel to Harry and back again. They’re both watching me. I grin. “You win some you lose some, Marcel – CHECK. FREAKING. MATE!”

Harry erupts into cheers and Marcel laughs, toppling backwards. I can’t believe it I actually can’t believe it I’m genuinely a boss at Chess GET IN-

We all jump around for a little bit, whooping so much in celebration that our mums come in to look at the board and offer their bemused congratulations and duck out again and even Marcel is happy because, as he says, we’re probably pretty much even now in ability and he’s just really proud that I can actually play to such a high standard and Harry’s just thrilled that someone’s finally beaten Marcel and I’m just really happy because ARGH.

“Ahh, no but seriously guys, thank you. I mean, wow – I don’t think I’m half as good as you, Marcel, but at least I can play – and, like, yeah – you win some you lose some.” I wink at Marcel and Harry kisses me full on the mouth. I don’t articulate exactly what I’m thinking until later that evening, to Harry, and then next lunchtime I spend with Marcel, but what runs through my head is an interesting idea, and it’s one that I cling to:

Yeah, okay, you win some you lose some, but at least you can play. Maybe I’ll win some battles, maybe I’ll lose some: but I’m playing, now. For the first time in forever, maybe I’m actually on par with life – I can sit and I can see the moves and countermoves that it takes to navigate through every day without falling down. Perhaps, yeah, I’ll lose some battles and I’ll break some promises and I’ll ruin myself, but at least I know how to play. I’m not hopeless in the face of some unfathomable adversary. I understand now what I’m up against, and that’s half the game.

All sorts of things rush right by me at school – Harry takes me to a music concert on his birthday and I get driving lessons and I’m absolutely terrible because I’m a very nervous driver and Eleanor totally takes down Danielle because apparently she ‘knows how to play the teenage girl field’ and she leaves me alone after that and I still struggle on day by day and some of those days are horrific and sometimes I don’t tell anybody that I’m having difficulty doing normal things like cutting my fingernails and other times I’m completely better than okay and I’m as happy as Niall in a guitar shop and things just go and go and go until exams are staring me right in the face and guitar group has become study group and we’re all pretty much living at Liam’s house because he’s the only one who understands any of our subjects like he practically wrote my English coursework for me and he doesn’t even take English and suddenly we’re taking exams and I have a panic attack right before my first one and nobody is alright and everyone’s flat out but it goes okay everything’s going okay mostly I’m okay and oh ooph was that really my last exam what do I even do with my life right now oh good grief it’s nearly my BIRTHDAY-

Good grief. Where did that come from.

Sure, maybe it’s true that school’s just a test run for real life, but there’s absolutely no way I am ready to be an ADULT-

I’m a July birthday, so I’ve always been on the young side. I haven’t told anybody that it’s my birthday, and no one’s given any indication that they know, so I’m HOPING I’ll get away with it...

I do have my driving test today though, so it’s not like I’m doing anything this morning other than fretting and anxiously repeating road sign meanings to myself.

I relax a little while I’m in the car. My mum put me on the insurance for her car when I started getting lessons and I’ve actually come to quite like driving: the world becomes no bigger than the metal box and the road around me, and all I have to control is a wheel and a couple of levers. There’s no homework or mean teenage girls, no crowds and no razor blades while I’m in the car. I can listen to Harry’s CDs and nothing hurts – except when I take a roundabout too quickly and grip the steering wheel so tightly I nearly break. Harvey, my driving instructor, is very sympathetic though, and passes me – just.

Shaky with relief, I drive straight home. My mum’s at work, and I don’t linger long – just long enough to brush my teeth, which is a coping strategy I’ve developed – always carry a toothbrush and toothpaste – sometimes I brush my teeth four or five times a day. It relaxes me. It’s a very familiar kind of routine.

I breathe through my nose and the bristles smush foamy mint bubbles all over the inside of my mouth; it kinda stings – in a good way. I stare at myself in the mirror. I haven’t changed much in the last year: still ridiculously skinny, still haunted looking – still too lazy to re-dye my roots as often as I should. Still permanently anxious. Still consciously refusing to look at the medicine cabinet as I walk out the door. It’s almost as if having friends so close they’ve become family has made no difference to me.

Except that it HAS... I can’t describe how. It plays a part in waking up everyday – like I don’t have to do it for myself, but for Harry, or for Niall or Eleanor, or Marcel or my mum, for Zayn or Louis or Liam. Sometimes I hate them for making me push myself into a semblance of normal, on days when I’d rather be buried six feet under and I can’t even remember why I should bother eating. 

Sometimes I hate them, but that’s mostly because I’m frustrated that I love them as much as I do.

And I find it equally frustrating that they love me as much as they do. But it’s a good kind of frustrating – it pushes me, in a healthy way. At least, that’s what Alison says – she always says that they’re making me have to work out why anyone would like me at all, and that’s apparently very good for me.

I’ve texted Harry to say I’m on my way over to his house, and I pull up on the kerb outside, wary of Louis and Zayn’s cars blocking the driveway. Uh oh. Oh God they had better not have realised that it’s my birthday or something ridiculous like that or I’m going to start smashing things-

I nervously walk up the driveway, then stop outside the door. I’d better call Harry, just to get a heads up.

“Diana! Ma girl, you here yet? Y’know, you’d’ve failed that test if you’re calling and driving at the same time-“ I can hear voices in the background. Breathe.

“Harry, I’m outside.”

“Great! I’ll come open the door-“

“No- no, wait! I just wanted to ask-“ too late. Cringing, I turn around and he’s standing in the doorway, putting his phone in his pocket. He’s grinning at me. He opens his arms.

“Diana! Hello-“ he pulls me inside and wraps his arms around me. Cheerfully he says into my ear: “don’t worry, we haven’t done anything embarrassing like throw you a surprise party, or anything – although Happy Birthday, by the way.”

I chuckle and breathe deeply into his shoulder. I’m safe here. Home. “Thanks. And, uh, how did you know?”

He winks. “ I have my sources. I’m kidding, Marcel asked your mum. But she said you don’t like a fuss, so I WILL warn you, we did get you a surprise, kind of-“

“Oh you’re kidding me-“

“No, no, no, you’ll love it. Trust me,” he puts his fingers under my chin and I look into his face. He leans in and kisses me and, yeah, okay, fine, whatever, I’ll go with it – for his sake. Ugh why are there people here. “Okay, d’you want it out here? Or in front of everyone?” He asks me.

Louis’ voice calls out from the living room: “are you talking about the D, Harold? Because if so I’m pretty sure we’d like you to stay out there!”

I have to laugh at that. The ‘D’ jokes are fairly never-ending, but there’s not much we can do about that.

Harry leads me towards the living room and then looks around at me, grinning fiendishly. I hesitate. I’m not prepared for whatever this is, and I honestly have no idea what to expect. “Um, maybe I should stay outsi-“

Marcel opens the living room door. “Hey, Happy Birthday, Diana!”

I hear Liam and Zayn and Louis and Eleanor call out Happy Birthday as well and I’m pretty sure Niall’s singing it as an operatic solo, but someone has just appeared behind Marcel and I just-

Oh my God-

Alison-

“Hey, Diana, honey! Happy 18th!” She beams at me and open her arms, and I just-

What is air-

Oh my God-

I love her so much-

I love everyone so much oh my God oh my God I can’t believe she’s here oh my God-

I throw myself on her, shrieking something incomprehensible and people are laughing in a pleased sort of way and I’d forgotten just how tall she is and she squeezes me tightly and spins me and I’m so happy I’m so happy oh my God Alison’s here all my favourite people are here oh good grief I’m crying so much oh man oh man Ali Ali Ali.

What a birthday present.

What a birthday.

What a day.

What a life.

Alison doesn’t make everything okay, but then, as she herself has always told me, that isn’t her job. Harry doesn’t make everything okay – Marcel CERTAINLY doesn’t make everything okay, but we struggle through that together. Eleanor and Louis don’t make everything okay and neither does Niall with his guitar and his sunshine. I’m pretty sure that God himself couldn’t make everything okay, but that’s not the point of HIS job either:

The point is that I’ll be standing on that rooftop forever, playing a game of Chess with a bloody, torn up, suicidal depressive who loves too much not to jump. I may not win every game, and I may not lose every game, but at least I’m the one playing. And if all I’m playing most of the time is myself – well then, bring it on, because I could play this game forever – and I will.

Until the end of the last day of the last year, I will.


End file.
